This Man's Heart
by ellie.hell
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man from a small village and a doctor disfigured in a war meet, form an unusual friendship, change each other's lives forever and maybe fall a little in love in the process.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements:** Thanks to albalark who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and disassembly_rsn whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely anon who answered my questions about the school system in the chatter post of the kinkmeme.

**Disclaimers:** I own nothing. The 'skeleton' of this story comes from the novel _Là où la mer commence_ by Dominique Demers, which I adore. It's a new take on the very well known story Beauty and the Beast and I borrowed a lot from it. Still, no knowledge of the novel is required to understand and appreciate this story. As for the Sherlock stuff, well you know where that comes from, and the title is from a poem by E.E. Cummings.

**A/N**: A kind of crossover with Beauty and the Beast, but I would mostly describe it as an AU. As much as I love the Disney movie, this has very little to do with it; no enchantment, no dancing furniture and no singing. It answers the question 'what would Beauty and the Beast be like in the 'real' world?'

Despite this being the fifth fic I post, it's actually the first one I started working on back in February. Don't fear the WIP, I'm almost done writing it, but posting regularly should quicken my editing process (my plan is once a week). This first chapter is mostly backstory, but there are a lot of things to establish when one embarks on such a big journey.

:::

This story took place a very long time ago, in a beautiful place where the Saint-Lawrence River turns into a gulf, then into the ocean. The village called Sainte-Cécile was known for its sumptuous peaks and headlands beaten by an enraged sea, its small islands revealed by the tide, its small secret bays invaded by gulls and seals, and its swamps swarming with white-tailed deer. It seemed this story couldn't have developed anywhere other than in that strange and fabulous landscape haunted by ghosts, but protected by fairies.

Sainte-Cécile's history is filled with legends. People said that, after creating the mountains, God had ordered an angel wearing a long silk coat to spread them all over the Earth's surface. Upon arriving in Sainte-Cécile, his last stop, the angel had been exhausted, but his pockets were still heavy with mountains. He had decided to empty them all at once and instantly, an ensemble of mountains had erupted from the sea while a handful of loose gravel had given birth to small islands. Over the years, families had established themselves along the coast, the Saint-Lawrence River regularly bringing new people who had heard about the region's beautiful landscapes or were simply interested in being part of a growing community, to participate in building a place they could call home. Life was fairly quiet; it was good.

Sainte-Cécile was a small town where everyone knew each other very well, which means the favourite topic of conversation was usually some neighbour or other. Like in many small towns, gossip was one of the preferred distractions, which resulted in Sunday Mass becoming more of a social gathering than a religious one, to the priest's dismay. However, speaking about one another never stopped the townsfolk from taking care of each other; mutual aid was part of what made the village dynamic work.

The Golden Rule was at the heart of the village's harmony and, despite the amount of time spent speaking behind other people's backs, the townsfolk mostly felt deep affection for each other. However, it was easy for newcomers or those who were too different to be ostracized and end up being the main topic of conversation on the church steps. However, once one was accepted as a true part of Sainte-Cécile, he was guaranteed friends for life and help whenever needed.

Since many families relied on farming for sustenance, life was ruled by the cycle of seasons. During spring and summer, the village buzzed with activity. People worked hard during the day, while the nights were reserved for quiet family dinners or larger gatherings with neighbours. The warm weather was also favourable to weddings and, with the townsfolk's tendency to put their noses into each other's affairs, it wasn't surprising that the union of two people always set the whole town ablaze with excitement. Nothing could stir the village as much as an upcoming wedding and no occasion could bring the townsfolk together more effectively. The turmoil increased tenfold when the union was between two people of the same sex. Perhaps because it wasn't as common, but the announcement of an upcoming same-sex wedding always sent the whole town into a state of exaltation.

The dynamic of Sainte-Cécile drastically changed in winter, when life slowed considerably as the village was covered in a thick blanket of white snow. There were fewer large neighbourhood gatherings and more small parties held in houses, giving the whole village a much more intimate feeling. When the snow melted, the cycle began again: spring with its timid buds, followed by a hot summer and the harvest, then, a crisp autumn with bright colours leading to another cold and cruel winter.

:::

Sherlock Holmes lived with his aunt, Martha Hudson. She was the only family he had and they shared a cozy house in Sailboat Bay, a very quiet corner of Sainte-Cécile. From their secluded location, only they could see the forbidden manor where Harry Watson and her younger brother lived on Spruce Cape.

The story of Sherlock Holmes' family seemed intimately linked to the sea. Martha Holmes, Sherlock's aunt, had married the eldest son of the Hudson family, but her marriage was struck by tragedy in its first year, before they even had time to conceive a child. Her husband had died before her eyes when the ice bridge he had been crossing while returning from gathering wood collapsed, the sea instantly swallowing him. Martha was devastated; her husband had been a childhood friend and, even if their marriage had been young, they had had a very deep and powerful connection.

Her husband had been an admirer of the sky, often spending long hours outside with an arm around Martha's shoulders while he recited the names of the different stars and constellations. After his death, Martha felt that the sky her husband had been so fond of now mocked her, and for days she couldn't leave the house unless necessary, not feeling strong enough to face the firmament. Unfortunately, the sky was difficult to avoid and she had resolved to learn as much about it as her husband had, feeling it was a way to conquer the upper atmosphere and, therefore, her sorrow. She threw herself into his astronomy books and only found peace when her knowledge equalled his. Afterwards, she was able to observe the sky without feeling sad or angry. From that day on, the sky was a source of comfort for her and even if the oppressive sadness was gone, she never lost the sweet melancholy the thought of her husband brought. She never remarried.

Sherlock's father, Alban Holmes, was a maritime pilot. One day, when a ship from England hit the seabed and began to sink, he was asked to be part of the rescue team. He had already rescued two men when his lantern lit a floating inanimate body. He called out while getting closer, but got no response and when he finally could hoist the body into his rowboat, he saw that it belonged to a young and very beautiful woman who wasn't breathing. He feverishly pressed her lungs, terrified by the idea that she might never breathe again and, when he thought the battle was lost, she coughed. Alban rowed as fast as he could to bring her ashore. After carrying her into his house, he lit a fire, undressed her, laid her by the fireplace and piled every blanket he owned on her trembling body. A few hours later he still couldn't tear his gaze away; the woman he had snatched from the sea was alive and sleeping peacefully.

No words described her better than 'stunningly beautiful'. Long black curls delicately framed her pale face and her eyes were grey. Her lips were red and when slightly opened, were shaped like a heart. She had left England to be a governess in a rich Englishman's house in Québec City, but she never reached it. After seeing Alban bent towards her, his cheeks flaming and a sparkle in his eyes, she thought she was falling in love. That same spring, they were married and two years later she gave him a son: Sherlock. Alban was happier than he had ever been. 

But his beautiful wife wasn't the kind of woman who found joy in sitting peacefully at home. She was from a very big and exciting city where everything moved constantly; she was bored by the quiet life in Sainte-Cécile and not at all impressed by the beautiful landscapes surrounding her. Alban tried everything he could to distract her, but not even the tentative smiles of baby Sherlock could cheer her up. One day, Alban woke up to find a letter from his wife telling him she had left for Québec City with an English captain she had met in town.

Alban couldn't resign himself to a life without the woman he loved so much and, after leaving two-year old Sherlock with his sister, he dashed in the pursuit of his wife in his buggy. He planned to find her and convince her to stay; he was even prepared to move his family to Québec City if it meant he and his wife could be together. They would take a house in the busiest street they could find and he would return to Sainte-Cécile only to get his son and, if she wanted to come, his sister. Exile from the village he had grown up in was nothing compared to a lifetime with the woman of his dreams.

Nevertheless, even the best-laid plans are subject to failure and Alban's buggy was ambushed on the way to Québec City. The robbers stabbed Alban before leaving with everything he had brought with him. When his body was found, a letter was sent to the address painted on the buggy and, eventually, Martha Hudson got the news that her brother had died. Everyone expected Sherlock's mother to come back and claim her share of the inheritance; a much-discussed matter around the village. However, Martha never heard from her and it took several months before she heard that her ex sister-in-law had died from typhoid fever. Martha was now the only family Sherlock had left and she vowed to take care of him for as long as she lived. She inherited a small sum of money, with which she bought a new buggy and a horse, but the rest was stored away for Sherlock. She also inherited her brother's house, but instead of selling it, she decided to rent it and use the money to see to her and Sherlock's needs.

It wasn't long before she realized that Sherlock wasn't like any other child, and she had seen a fair number of children, her mother having raised six of them. He started talking very late; so late that Martha had the doctor examine him. He assured her that everything seemed normal and that there was nothing else to do but wait. When he finally started talking, he was already forming small sentences and was asking way too many questions, following his aunt around everywhere she went, wanting to see everything, touch everything and often embarrassed her with awkward questions about the people they encountered.

Sherlock was very interested in what people did or said and in the motivations behind their actions. However, he had no interest in forming bonds with people other than his aunt. She had hoped he would make some friends once in school, but her hopes were crushed very quickly. He never played outside with the other children, preferring to run after animals, collect leaves or experiment with bugs, never staying still unless he was forced to. The worst for him were the hours he had to spend sitting in class. He was smarter than every child his age (and most of the older ones too) and when he wasn't fidgeting and looking out the windows, he was correcting the mistakes the other students made or pointing out errors on the chalkboard. The other students hated him and when a classmate smashed her slate on his head, Martha lovingly removed the pieces that were still stuck in his hair while trying to hide her surprise that it hadn't happened sooner.

It didn't help that he was taking after his mother and had what was considered a peculiar appearance. His dark brown curls formed a halo around his pale young face, he was taller than all the children his age and very thin despite Martha's attempts to fatten him up. However, the feature people usually noticed first was his eyes. They were slightly almond shaped and mostly gray, but sometimes appeared blue or green depending on how the light hit them. It was no surprise that he was teased about the way he looked; children tend to be cruel to those who look different. He was also teased because he was smarter, because he had no friends (which he didn't mind). Some even said it was his fault his mother had left, that no one would want a strange child like him, and those taunts tended to sting more than the others. As a defense mechanism, he became expert in observing people, finding their weaknesses and using them shamelessly against those who tormented him. He couldn't count on his fingers the number of students who had run home crying because of him and no amount of discipline measures applied by his aunt could change anything. The only thing that ever seemed to have a negative effect on him was being forced to stay still, but tying him up was not an option, even to teach him a lesson.

By the time he was a teenager, he looked even more awkward than before. His limbs looked disproportionate to his thin and small torso. His cheekbones were too high, his eyes were too close together and his curls were too wild. Like every boy his age, his voice was breaking and for a while he talked even less than usual, hating not being in control of the sounds escaping his mouth.

He had started playing the violin a few years before and he was very talented, although only Martha and his music teacher had ever heard him play. He practiced for long hours at a time, sometimes only stroking the strings in random patterns to see what sounds he could draw from the instrument, but sometimes falling into a deep trance and playing symphonies as well as a maestro. At first, Martha thought the violin could potentially be used to motivate Sherlock into doing his schoolwork and she tried hiding the instrument. However, her gambit failed and Sherlock spent all the time he should have devoted to his schoolwork looking for his violin, instead of playing it. After a while, she stopped trying to trick him into studying; his results were excellent anyway.

The teachers tended to forgive his horrible manners in class since he got top grades in everything with little apparent effort. The older he got, the more his teachers talked to Martha about Laval University and the scholarships offered to honour students. She was very enthusiastic about them, but Sherlock had no interest in pursuing higher studies once he was done with Sainte-Cécile's school program. He was perfectly happy teaching himself about anything he found interesting using dozens of books. When he wasn't reading, he was running around the village to study people or make various experiments.

He spent so much time observing people that he eventually became an expert in reading them and making deductions based on everything about them: clothing, behaviours, accessories, physical appearance, personal grooming and various idiosyncrasies. He knew when people were lying, who was stepping outside their marriage (and with whom, obviously), and who was trying to hide or fake an illness. He could tell someone's profession before they opened their mouths and if he had bothered to care, he would've easily known what someone had eaten for lunch. It was an impressive talent, but it usually got him into trouble. Or slapped.

One thing that really entertained him was the arrival of new people in town. He liked to meet them, have a very brief conversation with them and deduce as much as he could using the data he had gathered. Martha knew about his little game and, even if she disapproved of her nephew using people for his own entertainment, every time someone around Sherlock's age arrived in Sainte-Cécile, she found herself almost as excited as he was. She hoped the newcomers would manage to hold his attention for longer than a few minutes, but her wish remained unfulfilled. The worst experience so far had probably been Jonathan Anderson. Sherlock had loudly deduced that he was scared of rats, which had made the villagers laugh and for a while, Anderson had found rats everywhere he went. He now hated Sherlock so much he crossed to the other side of the road to avoid meeting him.

When the Hooper family arrived, Sherlock was twenty-four years old and Martha had a sparkle in her eye when she heard they had a twenty-one-year-old daughter named Molly. She invited the whole Hooper family to dinner and, of course, Sherlock promised to attend what he expected would be a deducing fest. After dessert, Sherlock and Molly went for a short walk on Moose Cape and later, when Martha asked Sherlock what he thought of young Molly, she was surprised to hear him describe her as interesting; a very flattering term she had rarely heard him use before.

It turned out Molly Hooper was very interested in death and once Sherlock deduced this, that's all they talked about. It was the first discussion Sherlock had had about death with anyone other than his aunt; the subject was taboo and most people avoided it. The day after the shared dinner, Sherlock walked to Molly's house, an unusual bounce in his step, and she agreed to go out for another walk with him. They wandered around the cemetery together, reading plaques and speculating on the cause of death of the people laying six feet under them. Molly was quite taken with Sherlock; she was all smiles, blushes, batting eyelashes and pretty giggles. Sherlock had seen the signs numerous times before, and he was disappointed to see them directed towards him. Molly had seemed interesting at first, but the last thing Sherlock wanted was to end up on the receiving end of an infatuated young woman's affection. He never walked to Molly's house again and only spoke to her when she addressed him first. He thought that was sure to nip her attraction in the bud. It didn't.

Martha was disappointed, of course, but the very short interest Sherlock had had for Molly looked like a sign that not all hope was lost. One day, someone would come and turn out to be his first friend or, even better, his wife. Unfortunately for her, she would have to wait five years before someone lit that spark of interest again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: **This chapter contains mentions of animals being hunted for sport and a non-graphic description of an animal caught in a snare.

**Acknowledgements:** Thanks to **albalark** who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and **disassembly_rsn **whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely **anarion** who, once again, acted as a beta for my header.

**Disclaimers:** I own nothing. The 'skeleton' of this story comes from the novel _Là où la mer commence_ by Dominique Demers, which I adore. It's a new take on the very well known story Beauty and the Beast and I borrowed a lot from it. Still, no knowledge of the novel is required to understand and appreciate this story. As for the Sherlock stuff, well you know where that comes from, and the title is from a poem by E.E. Cummings.

:::

Sherlock Holmes was twenty-eight years old in the spring when Harriet Watson got off a ship coming from England to visit her cousin. By then, the young Holmes had long grown into his body, his lean torso now proportioned to his long limbs. His grey eyes, high cheekbones and full lips, although still very unconventional, had developed some kind of harmony under the still wild dark curls. It didn't make sense; if examined individually his features should've looked ridiculous on any man, but the sum of them worked for him and, as for his mother before him, no other words suited him better than 'stunningly beautiful'. A few young women who had been to school with him and teased him relentlessly were now getting weak in the knees every time they heard his deep voice, a rumble not unlike the thunder on a July storm.

Harriet Watson's cousin was well liked in Sainte-Cécile; he was a very powerful man and had worked hard for the establishment of the sawmill in the village, which had helped its development considerably. Harriet stayed for a whole season; she was a rich woman coming from a very rich family, and her only obligation was the management of the family's wealth, which left her with plenty of time to devote to her favourite pastime: hunting. She applied herself to the activity with obsession and savagery, and she had decided to temporarily leave her wife Clara with her younger brother after hearing about the abundance of game in America.

The only thing known about Harriet (other than the greatness of her wealth) was how skilled she was as a hunter. The gossips said that when she was twelve years old, while hunting rabbit with her father in France, a wild boar had charged at her. The young girl hadn't even screamed, she had shouldered her gun and had cold-bloodedly waited for the boar to approach. Only then, a gunshot had echoed through the trees and the beast had collapsed a few feet away from Harriet. They had brought back the carcass and, during the following years, plenty of heads had been added to their walls.

Harriet was not a very feminine woman and someone seeing her for the first time could have easily mistaken her for a man. She was of medium height and had a muscular body, sculpted by many years of hunting around the globe. Her hair was shorter than usual for a woman and she could usually be seen wearing men's clothing because she considered it more convenient when hunting.

Harriet's cousin was very proud to show her around the land and take her to the best hunting spots. At dawn, he brought her to Salty Swamp to see the white-tailed deer leaving the forest to graze on the bank and then, when the tide was low, they hunted the napping seals on the rocks in Pig Bay. Harriet seemed insatiable; she demanded to be taken at sea to splash the water with porpoise blood and, when they came back, they trapped enough foxes to dress a whole family with the furs. Harry Watson couldn't believe her eyes, even in her wildest dreams she had never known such abundance. Before returning to England, she bought a large chunk of land covering everything from East Birches Bay to Spruce Cape and hired a dozen men to build a large manor. The land was so far away from the busy part of town and the main road, that only the family living in Sailboat Bay - the Holmes - would be able to see part of the manor. It looked as though Harriet Watson wanted to hide.

Harriet came back to Sainte-Cécile in the end of the following summer. On that day, the fog was so dense that no one saw the ship approaching until it was almost in the port, emerging from the fog like a lost ghost. The word was quick to spread and very soon the curious villagers were fussing around and gathering close to the port to see what was happening. At first, only crates and suitcases were taken out and piled outside by a few servants. The process took so long, it looked like the Englishwoman had packed up her whole country, and only when the sun had started descending did the unpacking end. Usually, the villagers would've returned home by then, but the atmosphere was so eerie and sinister, with the fog and the gulls circling the port, it seemed like everyone was rooted to the spot and unwilling to go home.

Harriet finally emerged, walking slowly and staggering a little before strengthening her steps, her back rigid despite the heavy charge she was carrying. In her arms was an inanimate body - a woman's body - wrapped in muslin. Her lifeless face was framed by blazing red hair floating in the wind and whipping her pale cheeks. Harriet was bringing back her wife's cadaver; she had died two days ago as the ship was sailing along the estuary. The darkness couldn't mask the bloodstains on the material covering the deceased, the young woman had lost a lot of blood before dying and Harriet had kept her close to her for the remainder of the voyage.

Behind Harriet, a younger man was walking. Her brother. Even from far away, Sherlock could see he was of medium height, had a strong body hidden under a thin black coat and was wearing a long red scarf around his neck despite the nice weather. As he and Harry got closer and the rumour of the red haired lady's death started to circulate among the villagers, the scene got clearer.

The brother was wearing a mask.

It was a leather mask, supple and thin, tied at the back of his head and covering his face from the lower part of his forehead to the tip of his upper lips. On the left side of the uncovered part of his forehead, some ravaged skin could be glimpsed, disappearing under the mask. His hair was abundant and not quite brown nor blonde: fawn. His most noticeable feature despite the mask was his eyes. They were blue and seemed to be burning, consuming his whole face. Not a sound could be heard among the townspeople until one of them expressed what most of them were thinking.

"The man is a monster!" he screamed, fright tainting his voice as Harriet took a few steps in his direction. He took a few steps back to put more distance between himself and Harriet Watson, and especially between himself and the corpse Harriet was carrying.

"Get a good look!" she said. "Look at him because it's the last time you'll be seeing him," she added while gesturing towards her brother with her chin.

She looked around, her eyes heavy with threats.

"You are forbidden to come on my grounds. Those who will risk it will regret it," she added and, with one last threatening glare at the crowd, she was gone, her masked brother following.

For a while after moving to Sainte-Cécile, the Englishwoman never ceased to fuel the rumour mill. She often received merchandise from Québec City or from overseas and such a deployment of wealth irritated the townspeople who mostly had very modest lifestyles. Harriet hunted almost constantly and as soon as winter came, she installed snares.

At that time, Martha was renting her second house to a nice couple of married gentlemen, Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty, who had moved in about two years ago with their housekeeper, Marie Turner. She and Martha had become close friends and often invited each other over for tea, Moran and Moriarty sometimes joining them. Both of them had been part of the team assembled to build Harriet Watson's manor, so as far as gossip went they were considered experts, even if their knowledge on the subject was quite limited. Harriet had been away during the construction so there wasn't much to tell. At first.

On a cold December morning, Moran witnessed a troubling scene. Harriet Watson (who insisted on being called Harry) had asked him to help check her numerous snares for small game. They had already found three hares when they stumbled upon a magnificent red fox.

"A beautiful creature," Moran told the villagers gathered in his and Moriarty's living room that afternoon, "with fur so dense and so bright, that from afar I thought it was on fire."

Harry had knelt in the snow beside the fox and opened the trap, liberating the crushed paw. The animal had fought for a long time, but was now exhausted, taking a few deep breaths that made its red fur rise and fall slowly before finally succumbing to the wound. She stayed beside the animal for a long time, gazing at it as though unsure what to do next.

"Clara," she breathed softly. Only a few crows answered, then it was silent again.

Moran understood that something crucial was taking place before his eyes. He had seen Harry come out of the ship with her wife's body in her arms and he supposed that in the woman's mind, the red fur and Clara's red hair were tangling. The animal before her eyes wasn't an animal anymore.

"Clara!" she roared in such a desperate voice that even the forest seemed shaken.

Once again silence fell, surrounding them. Harry started caressing and massaging the fox, as if trying to bring it back to life. She pressed her face in the red mane, feeling the remaining heat in the animal's stomach.

"She looked completely lost, it was quite sad," Moran told his riveted audience.

Harry Watson finally emerged from her trance-like state, but refused to let go of the fox. She brought it back to her manor, ignoring Moran who stayed back for a while before returning home. In the following days, he learned from a servant that Harry had stuffed the animal by herself, awkwardly but affectionately. After the incident, she didn't stop hunting, but she lost some of her enthusiasm. She asked for Moran and Moriarty's help to build a large enclosure in which she started keeping red foxes, which enraged the villagers. Harry wasn't killing the foxes to sell their furs and she wasn't skewering them, which meant she was protecting the animals. For a farmer, there was no worse enemy than those little sneaky and smart beasts who could empty a henhouse in less time than it took for a farmer to notice their presence. The enclosure was solid for the moment, but no villager doubted that one day the foxes would manage to damage their prison and escape to wreak havoc.

In the following winter and spring, people started talking about the disfigured brother. Once in a while, someone reported having seen him wandering the capes or walking along the shores at ungodly hours, his red scarf floating behind him. Two pilots had seen him in a small rowboat being carried along by the tide. On a full moon night, he had been seen perched on top of a cliff while a couple of sparrowhawks had flown in wide circles around him. It was around that time that townspeople started whispering that the Watson boy must've been damned if even birds of prey were scared to reach their nests when he was around. It didn't help when he was spotted hunting rats, shattering their heads on rocks before putting them in a leather bag. This, more than anything else, made the villagers talk. It fuelled their imagination with images of the young man cackling evilly, his mouth twisted under the mask before grabbing a rodent in his dirty hands (in some of the stories, he even had claws) and biting its head off. The townspeople started calling him The Beast and the nickname stuck.

Sherlock, who was barely noticed anymore when he was sneaking around, was aware of what people were saying about the man with the mask and the more he heard, the more he wanted to meet him, or at least see him. He started wandering around the Watsons' grounds at all hours of the day and night, hoping to run into the mysterious young man and getting more annoyed every day that passed without even the slightest sight of him. It didn't take long before Martha started noticing what was going on, it was quite easy to deduce when she noticed Sherlock sneaking out more often than usual and the hungry look he got in his eyes every time The Beast was mentioned. She tried to warn him, reminding him of what Harry had said after she had gotten out of the boat, but Sherlock was stubborn. While he assured his aunt that he was being careful, he never stopped roaming around Spruce Cape, his long coat always billowing behind him.

On a foggy April night, Sherlock felt particularly brave and decided to get closer, wandering around the foxes' enclosure he had heard so much about. As he approached, he heard yapping and barking through which Harry Watson's furious cries could be heard. Sherlock ran as silently as he could and hid behind a particularly big tree from which he could see the scene. Foxes were running around, the enclosure door had been opened and beside it stood Harry Watson, her face red with fury as she tightly clutched a red scarf. She was frantically looking around, probably trying to locate the scarf's owner. Realizing the young man might still be around, Sherlock started looking for him, moving from tree to tree in order to escape Harry's scrutinizing gaze.

He heard a twig snap to his left and he looked. There stood the Watson brother, standing straight with his back flat against a tree trunk. Sherlock stared and the other man stared back before pressing a single index finger to his lips, the tip of his finger faintly brushing the leather of the mask. Sherlock nodded to signal he understood, but he kept staring, unable to detach his eyes from Watson's serious gaze, not caring anymore that an angry hunter was close by. The moment only lasted about a minute, but it seemed infinitely longer and after what felt like ages, the masked Watson looked around him one last time and started running towards the manor, making very little noise as he jumped over obstacles and swerved to avoid the small piles of snow that hadn't melted yet. Even after he had disappeared into the night, it took a few minutes before Sherlock could shake himself out of his stunned state and run back home.

From that day on, Harry Watson stopped keeping foxes in the enclosure and Martha, who had heard Moran's tale of what he called The Fox Incident, speculated that the Englishwoman was done grieving. Sherlock's thoughts went to young man who had waited until the right moment to free the animals and his eyes twinkled with curiosity. He was intrigued by the contrast between the man hunting rats – the one villagers caller The Beast – and the man who had been kind enough to wait until his sister was done mourning to open the enclosure and free the animals. More than ever, he wanted to meet him.

:::

If you want to see the timeline and map I made for this story, you can also read this on LiveJournal or AO3 where my username is ellie_hell.


	3. Chapter 3

During the weeks that followed his first – however brief – meeting with The Beast, Sherlock continued to wander close to the Watsons' grounds, but his clandestine expeditions were never successful. He was still sneaking around the village, listening to the tales of those who had encountered the masked man, but all he managed to gather were exaggerated descriptions of Watson's deformity and silly theories according to which he was the devil's son in person.

One July evening, Sherlock had been gathering lichen for an experiment on Burned Island when the weather turned ugly and he decided to get in his small rowboat and head back home. However, the wind became charged with mist and started blowing furiously. He was rowing as strongly as he could, feeling his arm, back and abdominal muscles becoming extremely taut and painful. He had just passed Enraged Cape and expected to make a direct line towards Sailboat Bay, but nature had other plans. A lightening bolt split the sky and rain started pouring violently, soaking Sherlock in just a few seconds. His small boat was swaying left and right while he continued to row, his destination uncertain as he had difficulties seeing the land ahead.

After a long struggle, his boat was snatched by a wave and spat out in West Birches Bay, a natural harbour deserted since the Watsons had arrived. He pulled his water filled boat onto the bank and decided to walk back home, which meant he would have to walk across the Watsons' grounds. The Englishwoman's warning hadn't scared him before and with that awful weather, it was unlikely she'd be out. To stay warm, Sherlock started running as fast as he could. He was getting close to the manor when his foot got caught in a muddy root and he fell to the ground with a gasp of pain. He grimaced with both pain and resentment as he recognized the signs of a bad sprain, and he continued his way at a considerably slower pace.

While approaching the now empty fox enclosure, he thought he heard someone moaning and he turned his head towards the sound. He knew at one it wasn't the cry of any animal that could be found in that forest and he limped closer as the moans turned into desperate sobs. There was a crouched shadow on the ground and as he approached, he saw a piece of red fabric. Ignoring his injury he hurried towards the man who then let out a heart-wrenching scream. He sounded so much like a wounded beast that Sherlock stopped, frozen. He had never heard a cry like that, like it was coming not from the man, but from the earth's entrails. Watson had his face hidden behind his arms. Unmasked.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock asked, crouching close to the other man.

There was a long silence, the rain had stopped and only the soft rustle of the wet leaves could be heard.

"Leave," Watson said and his voice was as soft as the leaves, but trembling as if he was making spectacular efforts to keep an unbearable pain inside.

"Do you need a doctor?" Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving the trembling form of the man beside him.

Watson didn't respond, only a choked sigh left his lips. A sound so soft and low Sherlock would've missed it if he had been just a little further.

"It's a bad day for me too," Sherlock continued. For some reason, he felt like he needed to keep talking, to say anything, that every word pronounced was weaving a thread between him and Watson.

"I rowed like a madman to return home, but I was blown off course by the wind and then, I sprained my ankle while running and it's pretty swelled already. But I suppose what's bothering you is more serious…."

The shadows of the moon were stretching between the trees, only sign of movement around them as Watson was holding his breath. Sherlock thought he looked the same age as he was, maybe older but not that much and before thinking about what he was doing, he stretched a hand towards the other man's shoulder.

"Don't!" Watson cried, abruptly standing to escape Sherlock's touch.

He was still shielding his face from Sherlock's gaze while towering over him, his eyes visible in the space between his arms. The two stared at each other: one pair of curious gray eyes locked on a pair of blue that looked almost black in the gloom of the storm. His eyes never leaving Watson's, Sherlock got up slowly and the other young man took a step back before turning around and running back to the manor.

Sherlock stood for a while, waiting until Watson had disappeared to continue his way, barely feeling the pain in his ankle anymore. Soon after, a servant came running and asked him to accompany him back to the manor. Dumbfounded, Sherlock followed, letting the servant guide him until they reached the manor. What he saw inside, he would never be able to delete from his memory.

He had never set foot in such a place. Everything was vast and nothing was ordinary. The roof was way too high and the walls were decorated with immense paintings. It wasn't a warm place, but a lot of small details captured his attention. Still following the servant, he crossed a corridor with more doors than he had ever seen in a single home. When they reached the last one, the servant stepped aside and gestured for Sherlock to go inside. He entered a room with a gigantic bed that looked nothing like the small one he slept in at home. From a single big window he could see the forest he had just come from and when he turned around, the servant had left and had closed the door behind him. A note was slipped under it and Sherlock half ran towards it, picking it up and reading:

_Sir,_

_You are not a prisoner, but I would be grateful if you didn't wander around the manor. Please try to rest and if you get hungry or if you want anything, slide this piece of paper under the door and a servant will come._

_Good night,_

_John Watson _

John. So he had a name…. Part of him wanted to open the door and explore the corridors, open the multiple doors until he found the masked man, but another part of him – a very annoying one – was telling him he had already invaded the other man's privacy enough for one night, so he started looking around the room, opening all the drawers but sadly finding them empty save for one containing paper and pencils. Struck with an idea, he picked up a piece of paper and scribbled:

_I'm sorry for earlier,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

He folded the sheet of paper in two and slid it under the door. By now, he could feel the throbbing pain in his swollen ankle and he sat on the bed, his eyes never leaving the door. There was a thick towel and some dry clothes on the foot of the bed and he changed into them after drying himself off. He got under the very heavy and comfortable duvet, but he was way too excited to sleep and he couldn't stop looking hopefully at the door.

After a while the exhaustion got the best of him and he dozed off for a few minutes before being awakened by a noise. He was disoriented for a few seconds, but when he realized where he was, he checked the door and saw what had awoken him; there was a piece of paper on the floor. A wave of excitement crashed through him and he got out of bed, wincing when his bad ankle hit the floor. He sat on the floor beside the door and read:

_Nothing to be sorry about, but please don't mention what you saw and where you slept to the villagers. My sister is not a bad person, but she would be furious if she knew you were here._

He grabbed a pencil and started thinking about what he would write next. He wanted to write something that would prompt a response if John walked by his door again. After a while, he was inspired and started scribbling.

_How long were you in Afghanistan?_

He stayed sitting where he was, with his back to the wall and his long legs stretched in front of him, trying to hear some noise outside the door. For a moment he thought he heard the soft rustling of paper, but nothing for long minutes afterwards so he supposed his mind was playing tricks on him. Just when he started considering going back to bed, the same piece of paper was slid back under the door.

_How do you know about Afghanistan?_

Smiling at the prospect of displaying his observation skill, Sherlock hurriedly wrote his answer.

_This spring, we saw each other in the forest and I noticed your posture; it suggested military training. The way you ran so silently while dodging obstacles confirmed it, no man from a rich family would run like that without some intensive training. Being rich, no doubt you went to university. What university career would be most useful in the army? A doctor. Of course, there's also your injury. _

_Judging from the fact that the scars only seem to cover the middle part of the left side of your face and that the rest of your body seems intact, I suppose you were shot. Judging from what I could see of the scars, I would say they are about four years old and come from either a hunting accident or a battlefield wound. You disapprove of your sister's pastime, that's why you released the foxes, so it wasn't hunting. A battlefield, then. Four years ago, where would a British soldier have been stationed? Afghanistan._

Sherlock excitedly slid the paper under the door and that time he could clearly hear someone picking it up. Knowing John was on the other side of the door was unnerving, he was so tempted to open the door he almost ached, but he stayed still, knowing something important was going on. John was quick to respond.

_That was amazing._

A smile from Sherlock, a few words scribbled and the piece of paper was back on the other side.

_You think so?_

_Of course it was. It was extraordinary._

_That's not what people normally say._

_What do people normally say?_

_Go away._

Sherlock was so close to the door that he couldn't mistake the soft laugh he heard for something else. Their conversation could've easily been whispered – they were mere inches from each other – but the exchange of notes seemed so intimate that neither seemed ready to break the spell. He felt very close to the stranger on the other side, closer than he had ever felt to anyone other than his Aunt Martha. While waiting for an answer he knew was coming (he could hear the scribble of graphite against paper), he turned so his right arm was pressed against the wall and he could see the door better.

_How's your ankle?_

_Still swollen. And sore._

He heard retreating footsteps on the other side and he stayed where he was, waiting for John to return, because it was obvious he was coming back; he was a doctor. A doctor wouldn't have left him alone after he had admitted being in pain. His thoughts strayed to the small pieces of John's face he had caught a glimpse of. The right side seemed intact, but from the little he had spotted, the middle part of his left side was heavily damaged and what he had seen was obviously not the worst of it. He was trying to come up with strategies to see what was under the mask when John came back. Soon after, some bandages were slid under the door, along with a new piece of paper with a small note at the top.

_It needs to be bandaged. Do you know how to do it?_

_I saw my aunt do it once. I should be fine._

Sherlock had indeed seen his aunt bandage Jim Moriarty's ankle after he had sprained it while repairing their fence and he did exactly as she had done it, starting at the toes and working his way up, wincing a little. Feeling proud, he watched as the piece of paper was slid back his way.

_Better?_

_Will be tomorrow. Thank you._

He didn't send the paper back right away; he didn't want their strange exchange to end. However, skilled as he was in many things, conversation was not his forte. He considered not answering, hoping that John's doctor instincts would force him into the room to check up on him. He decided against it and added a line to his previous message.

_I want to meet you. Properly._

For a few minutes, John didn't respond and Sherlock was afraid he had left, but that didn't make sense; he would've heard him leave. He didn't seem like the type of person to leave without another word, but what did Sherlock know about the other man? A few facts he had deduced, nothing more. The piece of paper making its way back to his side of the door interrupted his thoughts.

_Not tonight. It's late and you need to rest._ _My sister comes back from her trip tomorrow, but she travels often. As soon as a good opportunity presents itself, I will send you a signal. Look often towards West Birches Bay and when you see it, come and meet me there._

Sherlock's heart was beating so violently, he was sure John could hear it. He had offered to meet him; they would have the chance to talk and discuss the wild stories circulating around town. Sherlock could already think of dozens of questions he wanted to ask. Excited, he scribbled his answer and closed his eyes, trying to sooth his heart.

_What's the signal?_

_You'll know. Good night Sherlock._

He grabbed the paper and clutched it in his right fist, holding it close to his heart. Said heart was still racing as he pressed his left hand to the door and whispered.

"Good night John."

:::

A/N: Hello readers! I just wanted to take a moment and thank everyone who comments, follows this and favourites it. Every single email notification I get makes me giddy. I really enjoy the feedback and I want to take you all out for drinks.

Once again, you can visit my LiveJournal or AO3 accounts if you want to see a map of Sainte-Cécile and the timeline I update every time I post a chapter. Username is ellie_hell for both places.

One last thing. For those who read my texting fic, something about this chapter may have looked familiar. It's kind of normal, this chapter is part of what inspired me to write _I Prefer to Text._ There's just something about a closed door….


	4. Chapter 4

A/N : Seriously, the reviews I got for the last chapter blew my mind. Thanks for giving this story a chance and thanks for continuing to read. I reply to everyone, but some of you have PMs disabled, so I just wanted to take some of your reading time to say how much I appreciate your kind words. You all rock and here, have this new chapter because I like you (and because it's Monday).

:::

After waking up the next morning, Sherlock changed into his now dry clothes, the piece of paper holding the second half of his and John's conversation folded in his inner coat pocket. He opened the door and, as he expected, there were no signs of the masked man. He once again fought the urge to sneak around, but something about John made him want to respect his privacy. He had never bothered with people's privacy before; it was just a convention getting in the way of acquiring data. However, John was different and he suspected it had something to do with the mask. It was an imposed barrier and he wanted to respect it because _John_ wanted him to. It was strange and foreign, like having a new voice inside his head saying that in order to get closer, he had to refrain from getting too close too soon. The voice was soft, kinder than his own, and Sherlock was surprised to realize he didn't entirely object to its presence.

Exiting the manor quickly and quietly, he noticed the weather had calmed down and decided to go back to West Birches Bay where he had left his rowboat, hoping it hadn't been blown away by the wind. Luckily for him, the small boat was still there, pushed against a tree, but still pretty much intact. He pulled it back into the water and started rowing towards Sailboat Bay; his ankle grateful for the shift in pressure. When he finally arrived home, it was still early and his aunt was sleeping in a wooden rocking chair. She had a patchwork quilt draped around her thin shoulders, no doubt having fallen asleep while waiting for Sherlock's return. She woke up at once when he closed the door and was immediately on her feet, hurrying towards her nephew.

"You silly boy, are you just coming home? Where have you been? And are you limping?" She asked, managing to sound both concerned and annoyed at the same time.

"Oh, Aunt Martha, the most wonderful thing happened!" Sherlock replied, grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her around twice before sitting on his favourite chair.

"My boat got blown off course, I sprained my ankle and had to spend the night in the Watsons' manor."

He told her some of the story, leaving out the part about John's distress and everything after the first note. She fed him tea and oatmeal while listening to his story, becoming more and more concerned in the process. Still, she couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's enthusiasm.

"A storm, an injury and a night in a forbidden manor; it sounds dreadful, but I suppose you had a really good time. I need to check your ankle, put your leg on that chair," she said while tapping his knee.

He took off his shoe and lifted his trouser leg so his aunt could examine him. She removed the bandage, admiring the quality of the cotton.

"This John Watson sounds like a real gentleman, letting you stay and lending you clothes."

"He is. I don't believe the balderdash people are saying about him around town, he's just a normal man to whom something unfortunate happened."

"Just a normal man, is he?" she asked with a knowing smile. "I've never heard you describe normalcy with such enthusiasm."

Sherlock rolled his eyes; sometimes his aunt could be too perceptive for her own good.

"He's not boring normal, he's _interesting_ normal. With what he went through, what he is going through, he shouldn't be normal. Yet, he is. I find it fascinating," Sherlock tried to explain between winces as Martha felt his ankle and re-bandaged it correctly.

"I don't expect it to change anything, but please be careful. The brother may be nice, but I am still worried Harry will catch you snooping around and shoot you," she said as she brushed a few curls out of his eyes.

Sherlock sighed, trying to sound irritated but not quite managing it. In fact, he still hadn't come down from the adrenaline rush the previous night had provided. Once he was done with his breakfast and his aunt was done fussing over him, he escaped to his bedroom, took out his half of last night's conversation and read it for what felt like the hundredth time.

:::

A few weeks after that, the Lestrades arrived in Sainte-Cécile. By then, Martha was still worried about Sherlock wandering around in the forest close to the forbidden manor, but he had promised to be careful and there was nothing she could do to forcefully keep him inside the house; he was a grown man after all. Instead, she seized every opportunity she could think of to ask for his help with various tasks. Her last ploy had been to ask for his help to clean the house and – out of affection – he had indulged her for two days. By that time, he was buzzing with the excitement caused by the arrival of a new family in town.

Gregory Lestrade was thirty-five years old. His family had left the big city to establish themselves in Sainte-Cécile where his father had been given a job at the Price Company. He was to be in charge of the sawmill and of the adjacent store and Gregory had decided to follow. Mrs. Lestrade and her children were all a little scared of how their lives would change after moving from Québec City to what seemed like a very small corner of the world. However, soon after their arrival, they had been seduced by the landscapes and it wasn't long before they realized that the people scattered along the coast were far from ordinary.

Gregory was minding the store, like every afternoon, when he saw Sherlock Holmes for the first time. There had been very few clients on that day because of the awful weather, and he looked like he had walked for a while; his wet dark brown hair were curling low on his forehead, his long gray coat smelled like soaked wool and he was leaving muddy footprints all over the floor. However, that's not what struck Gregory first. Sherlock walked in as though he owned the place and he touched everything (something no other client would've dared to do), picking up objects and putting them down in the wrong place. He was very thin, but he invaded the place with his ample gestures and his energetic steps. As soon as Sherlock saw Gregory, he made a beeline towards the counter.

"You're Gregory Lestrade," he stated.

"Yes, I am," Gregory replied, a little shaken by the tone of the stranger.

"I know you are, I wasn't asking. It's quite obvious, judging by your age and the fact that you're standing behind that counter of the store run by your family. Also, those lines in the corner of your eyes."

Instinctively, Gregory raised a hand to touch his face, trying to feel for the lines he had never realized were there. Frowning, he asked. "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered.

Gregory had heard of Sherlock Holmes before; working in the store meant he was privy to new gossip daily. There was quite a lot of talk about the man, but the word he had heard the most to describe him was 'strange' and, judging from what he had seen of him so far, Gregory was forced to agree.

"I wanted to come sooner; there's always a lot of data to collect when a new family moves in, you see," Sherlock continued, "but my aunt decided the house needed to be scrubbed. I told her it was useless, that the house was clean enough and that her ploys to keep me from wandering around were less than subtle, but she insisted and I gave in."

While he was talking, another client had entered the store. A pretty brown haired nurse who was assisting the village's doctor. Her name was Sarah Sawyer and if she made frequent trips to the store to pick up the doctor's orders, Gregory wasn't complaining. He took care of Sarah while Sherlock continued to observe the scene with curiosity and a complete lack of shame.

"What can I do for you?" Gregory asked drily once Sarah had left the store.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a little surprised by the other man's tone.

"You're attracted to her," he said and once again, he wasn't asking, simply stating a fact.

Instinctively, Lestrade looked around to check if anyone had heard and was glad to see that the store was still empty. He was mortified; the nerve on that man seemed impossible.

"I am not!" he said through gritted teeth.

"Accelerated pulse and breathing, dilated pupils, trembling hands, your face is flushed and so is your neck. You're either attracted to Miss Sawyer or running a fever. Shall I get the doctor, then?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but couldn't help a smile.

"All right, I like her, please don't start telling people and keep your voice down, someone could come in and hear you!" he said, while nervously checking the door.

"Don't worry, she likes you too. Or was running a fever, sometimes it's hard to tell." He made a disgusted noise when he noticed Gregory's smile.

"If things go the way they always go in those situations, I expect a wedding within two years, and of course my aunt will make me go; it will be dreadful."

Of course, Sherlock was right. He was always right. Less than two years later, Sarah Sawyer would become Sarah Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes would be best man at the wedding. However, it wouldn't be the same Sherlock Holmes; following their first meeting, Sherlock's world would be turned upside down.

Sherlock found his first meeting with Gregory Lestrade very satisfying. Other than the man's attraction to Sarah Sawyer, Sherlock deduced his favourite kind of wine, the fact that he played the guitar (but not very well) and that he was working five mornings a week in the sawmill with his father. The latter deduction interested him most; accidents tended to happen often in sawmills. He eagerly asked about those and was pleased to be told a very gruesome description of an incident that had happened that very morning and in which someone had lost the tip of a finger.

The store was empty, so Gregory asked if Sherlock was interested in playing a game of chess and he agreed. There was a chess table in the back of the store where villagers and sea captains often gathered to play and gossip, but with the storm raging outside it was currently empty, so the two men sat down and started playing. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock won the game, but Gregory wasn't a sore loser and they played for almost two hours while Sherlock answered questions about the villagers and the rumours running around town. Obviously, Gregory eventually asked about Harry Watson and her masked brother.

Like every time the subject emerged, Sherlock's eyes lit up and he told Gregory everything he knew, except the tale of his meetings with John. He thought it best for Gregory to hear his side of the story, seeing as it was made of facts while anything anyone else would tell him was bound to be filled with lies, improbabilities and ridiculous fairy tales. For the first time, Sherlock actually had a good time in someone who wasn't his aunt's company. Or John's. But were you really in someone's company if you weren't even in the same room? Eventually, Sherlock had to go back home; Martha was having tea with Mrs. Turner the next day and she had asked Sherlock to bring back the molasses she needed to bake cookies. However, before he left the store, he made Gregory promise to keep an eye open for more severed limbs in the sawmill. Unfortunately for Sherlock, Gregory categorically refused to steal detached human bits, but he agreed to take notes. It wasn't ideal, but until Sherlock found a real cadaver (which he wished for everyday) it would have to do.

After Sherlock, it was Martha's turn to visit the store and welcome the recently arrived family. She entered the store bearing her brightest smile and the rest of the molasses cookies she had baked for Mrs. Turner. Martha and Mrs. Lestrade instantly liked each other and they spent a long time chatting on that day. Gregory had told his mother all about his first meeting with Sherlock and she was curious to meet what seemed to be a very smart but peculiar boy. So she invited them both to dinner that following Sunday and Martha accepted, promising to try her best to bring Sherlock along.

Luckily for them, Sherlock's routine had changed a lot since he had spent the night in the Watsons' manor. He was still often running around the village while conducting various experiments with animals, plants and townsfolk (even if the latter choice involved a lot of observing and no dissecting at all). Still, he didn't wander as far from home as he used to. He was always staying close enough to run to the edge of Sailboat Bay several times a day, looking for a signal from John and growing more impatient every passing day. However, he still accepted to accompany his aunt to the Lestrade's house for dinner, partly because he hoped Gregory would have more macabre tales of torn limbs to tell, but also because the store was one of the only places Harry Watson sometimes visited. He figured the subject was bound to arise with the store owners gathered around a table.

The meal was pleasant, Mrs. Lestrade was a good cook and the Lestrades were very nice people, taking turn delighting Martha with tales of the big city. In exchange, she answered all their queries about the villagers and finally the subject of the Watsons came on the table. Harry had come to the store only once since the Lestrades' arrival and it was to pick up a package that had arrived from Scotland. When she had lifted the heavy box, the sound its contents had made resembled bottles hitting against each other. They spent a few minutes speculating about the contents of the box, before giving up and talking about the masked brother. Martha surprised Sherlock by telling the Lestrade family that, despite his unusual appearance, he seemed like a nice person and that they shouldn't pay any attention to the horrific tales circulating about him around town. There were now two families in Sainte-Cécile who didn't believe The Beast deserved his nickname. It wasn't much, but according to Sherlock some progress had been made during that evening and he considered the whole thing a success.

In the following weeks, those Sunday dinners became a tradition and Sherlock attended them most of the time, only refusing to go when he had an experiment that required close supervision. Gregory and Sherlock would usually leave the table before everyone else, sneaking into the closed store to play chess and talk about the accidents that had happened - or almost happened - at the sawmill.

It took some time before Sherlock realized it, but as the weeks passed and he continued to beat Gregory at chess, he eventually came to the conclusion that he had made his first friend. The young Lestrade had lost every single game and Sherlock had called him an idiot at least once during most of them. He also had the habit of pointing out what mistakes had lost Gregory the game and why it didn't matter because he was smarter and would likely always be able to predict his every move, therefore continuing his winning streak. Still, Gregory's enthusiasm for the game never faltered and he seemed to appreciate Sherlock's company. He didn't know much about friendship, but decided that someone continuing to play with him while being called an idiot was most likely a friend.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Greetings readers. Just a quick note to say that, depending on my work schedule of next week, chapter six could be posted on Tuesday instead of Monday.

:::

On a beautiful September morning, Sherlock woke up feeling antsy and when he saw the beautiful sun shining outside, he decided to skip breakfast. His plan was to head to the Salty Swamp and see if he could find a few dead toads to cut open and examine. He ran to the shore, untied his small boat and was about to get into it when his eyes caught something that made his heart skip a beat. Far away in West Birches Bay, what looked like a red flag was floating between the trees. Sherlock knew at once what it was: John Watson's scarf. All thoughts of dead toads and swamps forgotten, he started rowing towards the signal.

On a clear day, Sailboat Bay was approximately 30 minutes away from the shore of West Birches Bay, but on that day the journey seemed much longer. When he finally berthed, John Watson was waiting for him. He had untied his scarf from the branch and was once again wearing it around his neck. At first, they just stared at each other; it was the first time they could get a good look, their last meeting had been brief and had happened at night. Neither knew what to say or how to start and for a moment Sherlock wished he had a piece of paper and a pencil; it had been much easier without John's piercing eyes fixed on him. Thinking of their last meeting made his lips twitch upwards; this was different. He wasn't sneaking around trying to catch a glimpse of the masked man, the meeting had been planned, John had remembered and had signalled for Sherlock to come.

"Good morning, neighbour," Sherlock said in an almost solemn tone.

John was surprised. His sister had left for one of her trips a few days ago and as soon as the door had been shut behind her, he had thought about Sherlock and the signal. However, as much as he wanted to properly meet the tall man from Sailboat Bay, he had doubts. What if he was only interested in gathering wild stories about The Beast to spread around the village? What if he was curious about the injury and wanted to see what was under the mask?

After two days, John had made up his mind and tied his scarf to a tree close to the shore, but the doubts hadn't ceased; only gotten worse. What if someone had talked Sherlock out of it? What if he didn't see the scarf? What if he saw it and didn't care? What if their first conversation had convinced him that The Beast wasn't worth meeting? As a defense mechanism, he had tried preparing himself for all possible outcomes and reactions, but he had never let himself hope for such a quick response. Also, Sherlock's timid smile made him forget every single apprehension he had had. He smiled tentatively back and extended his hand.

"Good morning. I'm John Watson, nice to meet you. Properly."

Of course, Sherlock caught the pause before the other man's last word - a reminder of their late night conversation - and he shook John's hand, aware that he was grinning, but somehow incapable of stopping. Now that John wasn't hiding his face behind his arms and speaking more than one word at a time, Sherlock could fully appreciate his voice. Often during the past weeks, he had tried holding on to what he had heard, trying to imagine what it would sound like in full sentences, but he couldn't have prepared for this. John's voice was the perfect pitch and he sounded like he was both about to laugh and shout. He also had a very mellifluous accent that had nothing to do with the English sailors he had heard previously.

"Sherlock Holmes. Very glad to meet you. Properly."

He was staring at John, delighted by the turn his day had taken. John's eyes, Sherlock thought, were gorgeous. Right now, as he was standing in the shadows cast by the trees, they looked almost as black as a moonless night, but still struck by lights and shadows. They were very unsettling. His mouth was almost intact, but there was a small mark, like a bite in the left corner of his upper lip. It was impossible to stare at the mask – to see the thin leather fitting tightly over damaged skin – without imagining monstrous sights.

John must have guessed what he was thinking because he hissed, "Stop it!" causing Sherlock to avert his eyes.

"Not knowing is troubling," Sherlock explained, "I imagine… the worst."

John's gaze hardened and his lips got thinner, he seemed gripped by something that looked a lot like sadness and Sherlock was reminded of that night when he had seen John distressed and unmasked on his grounds. Later that night, while laying under his covers and waiting for sleep to come, Sherlock would not be able to shake away the memory of those sad eyes. John didn't say anything, but his eyes screamed that the worst Sherlock could imagine was correct.

"But your eyes are beautiful," Sherlock added, shocked by his own boldness.

John stood motionless for a moment, dumbfounded and with his mouth agape. Then, he shook his head, as if to erase Sherlock's last words.

"Come," he said gruffly, "I want to show you something."

They walked along the shore of West Birches Bay, John making wide strides that Sherlock had no difficulty following. They crossed the Watsons' grounds and didn't stop until they were facing Lover's Island. The arrow of sand leading to the island was still unobstructed, but the sea was rapidly getting higher and soon the path would be impassable.

"If you follow me to the island, we'll have to wait until the tide withdraws before we can come back," John stated, unaware of how stubborn and curious his companion was. Nothing could have stopped him from going forward.

A few cormorants abandoned their refuges on the sun-bathed rocks as Sherlock and his guide followed the sand path until they reached the island's beach. From there, they followed a narrow winding path between the trees and their coloured leaves. After a while, they reached a clearing surrounded by silver birches. There was a small hut there, built by John, and Sherlock suddenly knew why some of the villagers had reported seeing a string of smoke raising above Lover's Island.

The hut was small, but solidly built. Inside, there was a stove, a wooden table and a single chair. Upon crossing the doorway, Sherlock held his breath. The room was sufficiently illuminated for him to see the small pile of bones close to the small wood stove. After seeing Sherlock's expression, John felt like he had to explain.

"They're not _human_ bones."

"Obviously," Sherlock stated, but he was still curious.

"When I find a dead animal, I keep the carcass to boil the bones and once they're dry, I reconstruct the skeleton. It helps me understand how the paws of foxes or hares bend and how the Ruffed Grouse flies. Then, it's easier to immobilize a wing or fix a splint when I find a wounded animal."

"Still a doctor…." Sherlock said before spotting what looked like part of a porcupine skeleton on the small table, the bones held together with resin. John was obviously in the process of putting it back together, most of the work had already been done and the remaining bones were scattered on the table. He got closer to examine the macabre puzzle.

"There's a bone missing," he said while gesturing towards the table.

"Impossible," John replied, "the fisher had just killed the porcupine when I found it and I brought it back here immediately."

"There are only 66 bones, so either you dropped one somehow or… Oh!" His eyes widened as the answer hit him. "Look at the size of the skeleton, it's obvious it was still a baby when it died. I counted the bones again and the one missing is from his right back leg. The bone isn't lost, the animal was born without it, and therefore he moved slower and was easy prey."

"Magnificent!" John exclaimed, his blue eyes shining and his mouth twisting in an almost smile. "I hadn't realized one of the bones was missing. How do you even know how many bones are in the skeleton of a porcupine?"

"You are not the only one examining animal carcasses, although my motives are not as noble as yours."

"What are your motives then?" John asked curiously.

"Most people have called it morbid curiosity, but I keep insisting it's scientific inquisitiveness."

John nodded before kneeling in front of a brown leather bag, plunging his hand in it and extirpating the corpse of a rodent. Then, he put on an elbow-high glove and gestured for Sherlock to follow him outside. Once they were both out of the hut, John stood straight in the middle of the clearing, his gloved hand extended towards the horizon.

"It could take a while," he told Sherlock.

Pigeons and a flock of seagulls flew over the island while John was waiting. Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to be waiting for, so he concentrated on John. The mask was stretching on his cheeks and Sherlock realized his companion was smiling – grinning in fact – and it was the first genuine smile he had seen on John's face. The change was radical; he looked much younger, almost carefree. It suited him.

Eventually, Sherlock detected the ruffle of feathers and he looked up. A bird of prey was gliding in large circles over them in the clear sky, inspecting its surroundings. Instinctively, Sherlock took a step forward when the bird swept down on John, trying to protect him from the attack. However, the bird landed gracefully on John's gloved hand. It was a Great Horned Owl, a magnificent creature, but still too small to be mature. Sherlock gazed at the long sharp and pointy claws, the formidable beak ready to crush its prey, and the liquid yellow eyes. He had never seen one from that close before; owls usually flew away when they were approached.

John was watching the bird with tender eyes. He brought the hand on which it was perched closer to him and slowly, the leather mask approached the feather coat of the animal until it creased softly. The bird tilted its head and its beak disappeared into John's hair. Sherlock didn't dare breathe, the sight was magnificent and he had never seen an owl behave like that. John and the bird stayed motionless for a long time, until John offered it the small rodent. The owl swallowed it at once, but it didn't flee; it waited until John lifted his arm to push it towards the sky. Only then, did it open its wings and fly away.

"That's it," John said simply while turning to face Sherlock.

The young Holmes was riveted. He was stricken and he didn't really understand why. Maybe it was because of the instant when the thin leather of the mask had touched the dark plumage, or the moment the crooked beak had buried itself in the fawn mane. The sight seemed infinitely serious and beautiful, like something that belonged in another world completely.

The tide was still high and they strolled around the island while waiting for it to descend. Then, they made their way to the shore where the sea was slowly deserting the beach and they managed to dig up some clams. John heated them up on a small fire until they opened and they ate in comfortable silence before lying down in the sand.

"I can spend hours looking at the sky while trying to recognize shapes in the clouds," John said before pointing at a white shape above them. "Like that, over there, it looks like a lion."

Sherlock turned to look at his companion. He could see the threads holding the mask had loosened up and the leather had shifted a little bit, revealing what looked like a small crater in his left cheek. He swiftly averted his gaze.

The sky was turning pink when they made their way back to West Birches Bay. They didn't exchange a word after leaving the beach of Lover's Island, but it wasn't an awkward silence, it was comfortable and neither felt the urge to break it.

"I could explain. About the rats, I mean. To the villagers," Sherlock suggested once they were back at the meeting spot.

"Don't you dare!" John exclaimed, horrified by the prospect.

"They talk a lot about you in the village, they call you The Beast. I don't mind telling people what you do with the dead rats, I'm sure they would understand. Most would be impressed."

John got closer, his blue eyes filled with anger, but despite his companion's quick change of mood, Sherlock didn't take a step back, he was ready for a confrontation.

"Fine, I won't say anything."

He couldn't understand. Everyone he knew craved the proximity of others, surely John was feeling lonely, stuck on his side of town with his bitter sister. At the thought of Harry Watson, Sherlock started talking again.

"I bet it's all your sister's fault. In fact, she's not a sister but a prison guard. She's been keeping you hidden since you came back from the war, hasn't she? I could help you get out, I'm not fond of most villagers, but I could introduce you to some of them, I have this friend named Gregory and he's nice–"

"Leave!" John interrupted, his voice dripping with fury.

His eyes shot daggers at Sherlock and Sherlock glared back. Unknowingly, he had entered a forbidden corridor, pushed open a secret door. He didn't look like John anymore; he was The Beast. A worrying creature. Closed. Inaccessible.

Sherlock pushed his small boat back into the sea, jumped in and started rowing furiously. Only once, he looked up to watch the shore and John was still there, standing on the beach swarming with seagulls. Sherlock wished he would've left, but he seemed rooted to the spot.

Sherlock growled something that may or may not have been "why don't you stay hidden, you infuriating Beast" and continued to row towards Sailboat Bay.

:::


	6. Chapter 6

Often during the following winter, Sherlock thought about the encounter and suspected he had ruined every chance he had had of John tying his scarf to a tree again. They had spent a nice day together, he had solved the porcupine skeleton puzzle, John had amazed him with his owl training skills and they had enjoyed each other's company. Yet, Sherlock had pushed a subject John hadn't wanted to get into and there had been no sight of the man or his scarf since.

Sherlock waited a little longer than five months before finally seeking someone else's opinion. At first he thought of his aunt, but she had fussed so much after he had spent the night in the manor that he didn't want to worry her more than was necessary. Instead, he headed to the store one afternoon and gestured for Gregory to follow him to the chess table, which he did once he was done with his customer.

"Gregory, are we friends?"

"Of course we are!" he exclaimed. "Why else would I let you win at chess?" he added with a mischievous smile and a wink before moving his pawn, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"In the years I've spent studying the townspeople's behaviour, I have discovered that friends seem to obey some rules, one of them being: friends must keep secrets for one another. Is that correct?"

Gregory narrowed his eyes. "Well yes, friends are supposed to keep each other's secrets, I suppose it could be called The Friendship Code but wait, Sherlock… did you _kill_ someone?"

"Ludicrous. Of course I didn't. But the story I am about to tell you is of a delicate nature and I want to make sure you'll be discreet."

Gregory was intrigued and he nodded vigorously. Sherlock then proceeded to tell him everything, from the first time he had seen John in the forest to the last time he had seen him, standing on the shore as he rowed away from West Birches Bay. Gregory waited until his friend was done before offering his input.

"Sometimes you need to think before you talk. I think you may have rushed him and I bet he didn't appreciate you saying his sister is a prison guard."

"His sister _is_ a jailer, surely he realizes that."

"Perhaps he does. But people don't usually like it when others speak ill of their families or friends," Gregory said.

Inevitably, they eventually ended up discussing the mask. "I wonder if it's really that horrible," Sherlock said, "and what he thinks when he sees himself in a mirror. Do you think there are mirrors in his manor? Do you think he removes his mask when he's alone?"

"I would," Gregory replied, "it must feel uncomfortable sometimes. Also, you said he was moaning and sobbing that night you slept in the manor, maybe the injury is painful."

Yes maybe," Sherlock said, but he wasn't really there anymore. His thoughts had drifted off to Lover's Island where he had spent the afternoon with John several months ago. There had to be a way to see John again; they didn't even know each other properly, it couldn't end when it didn't feel like it had begun at all.

:::

Everyday, Sherlock ran to the shore and looked towards West Birches Bay, wishing to see the red scarf floating in the wind. Everyday, he was disappointed, but he never stopped hoping. He couldn't chase Gregory's words out of his mind; of course he had made John angry – he had made a lot of people angry along the years – and he wanted to apologize and make it up to him. He usually didn't care when people were mad at him, but John was much more interesting than all the people he had angered along the years and he didn't plan on letting go until he knew what the source of the pull was. He knew the key to John speaking to him again was a heartfelt apology, but he didn't know how to reach him without alerting his sister.

Meanwhile, Harry Watson and her brother continued to stir the rumour pot around town. Harry didn't hunt as much that winter, but she often went to the store where she received many packages, some of them coming from as far as the other end of the world. She was living richly, ordering whisky from Scotland, Jenever from Amsterdam and wines from France. The Englishwoman wasn't hiding the fact she was drinking a lot and most villagers had seen her pull a flask out of her pocket at least once.

In February came Shrove Tuesday and the festivities associated with it. On that year, Moran and Moriarty had organized a small party in their rented house. Martha was obviously attending; she had helped Mrs. Turner with the food. The Lestrades were also going to be there and, surprisingly, Gregory had successfully talked Sherlock into putting in an appearance, telling him it was part of The Friendship Code and that he would regret not coming if Harry Watson decided to show up.

The alcohol was flowing in Moran and Moriarty's house. The oldest were gathered in the kitchen, sharing stories while the youngest were drinking and playing cards in the living room. Some villagers had brought their instruments and soon enough most people were paired up and dancing. Unsurprisingly, Gregory nervously asked Sarah Sawyer to dance and she almost didn't blush when she accepted. In order to avoid the requests of the women his age, Sherlock danced with his aunt, Mrs. Turner and even Mrs. Lestrade, but it had the opposite effect when the ladies realized he wasn't that bad a dancer. Molly Hooper, of course, was the most persistent of the bunch, but even she abandoned hopes after the third refusal. While Gregory was making a laughing Sarah spin, he heard Molly tell one of her friends that Sherlock was sinfully beautiful that night and as Lestrade glanced at his friend, he couldn't help but agree. With his cheeks reddened by the wine and the heat of the room, his hair even wilder than usual and his slightly opened shirt, Sherlock looked stunning.

The evening was mostly useless; while Sherlock would've usually enjoyed being surrounded by people discussions the Watsons, that night felt different. All the talk about what Harry was up to made him wish he still had meetings with John to look forward to. Unfortunately, Harry Watson never came and other than Jonathan Anderson leaving with his arm around the notary's daughter – Sally Donovan – nothing gossip worthy happened. Sherlock left way past midnight with a very tipsy Martha Hudson whom he had to help up the stairs.

:::

After lent, a horrible storm hit Sainte-Cécile. The snow blurred the horizon, erasing mountains, capes and bays; a whole landscape disappearing in a sea of white powder while a stifling silence buried everything. The storm had awoken memories in Sherlock, who couldn't stop thinking about the masked man. He wondered if John was bundled up alone in his hut on Lover's Island, wandering the corridors of his big manor or worse, kneeling and screaming on the snowed grounds close to the unused fox enclosure. On that night, Sherlock dreamed of him: he was running on the sandy path of Lover's Island, sometimes crouching down to pick up an animal bone. Suddenly, the wind started blowing, a swarm of feathers surrounded him and he disappeared at once, sucked in by the thick feather veil. Sherlock then heard a piercing scream. John was moaning and sobbing just like he had on that night and the noises escaping his mouth were shaking the mountains. When Sherlock woke up, he was drenched in sweat and trembling.

The next day, he was playing chess with Gregory when he once again felt the urge to talk about the masked man.

"I can't stop thinking about him, even when I'm thinking about something else, he's in the back of my mind. The thought of him being his sister's prisoner revolts me, and at the same time I find it sad."

"Are you sure he's a prisoner?" Gregory asked after thinking about Sherlock's words for a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"Think about the maritime pilots. They may seem like prisoners of the boats they pilot, but most of them love it very much and would feel trapped in the life you live, even with all the freedom you have."

Those words swirled around Sherlock's mind for a long time after he left the store, having won two chess games. He had a hard time imagining Harry Watson as anything other than a jailer keeping her brother prisoner like she had done with the red foxes, but he decided to send John a message nonetheless.

_John,_

_I would like to call you a friend, that's why I am worried by the idea that you might be prisoner. I may have imagined bars where there aren't any. It was without malice. Forgive me._

_Hoping to see your scarf again,_

_SH_

He rolled his message, wrapped it in one of his own scarves and, as soon as the weather was nice enough, he walked along the shore towards West Birches Bay. The journey was difficult and he often sank up to his thighs in snow, but eventually he reached the place where John had tied his scarf a few months ago. He tied his own scarf to the same branch and returned home, hoping, John would see this peace offering during one of his walks around the grounds.

:::


	7. Chapter 7

In March the weather started getting nicer, which made it easier for Sherlock to take his daily walk to Sailboat Bay's shore. His expectations of seeing John's red scarf floating in the wind had renewed after he had tied his apologetic message to the tree, but as days turned to weeks, his fragile hopes were beginning to falter.

On a cloudy morning, he finally got his wish and he didn't even try resisting the urge to jump up and down while exclaiming "brilliant!" He then ran across the ice field, his eyes never leaving the waving signal. John was waiting, wrapped in his black coat and his scarf untied from the branch as soon as he had seen Sherlock approaching.

At first they were silent. There were so many things Sherlock wanted to say, knew he had to say, but his chest felt heavy with the months that had passed without contact between them. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, John looked at him and shook his head. Grey eyes searched blue ones, but found no traces of the fury he had seen in them at the end of their last meeting.

John asked Sherlock to follow him and they walked all the way to Round Mountain. Only once, the masked man turned back to glance at his companion who was following eagerly. They started ascending the mountain with assured steps, John leading them between the trees even though there wasn't any visible path. A few times, Sherlock noticed hoof prints in the snow where the vegetation had been grazed. When they reached a clearing, John slowed down and Sherlock adjusted his steps to match his friend's.

"When I raise my arm, stop walking, get comfortable and don't move."

Sherlock nodded and did as he was told when they reached a depression and John raised his arm. He leaned on a big pine trunk and waited as he watched John silently take a few small steps.

Small heads then emerged from the undergrowth. Long thin ears, tender and soft eyes, and quivering nostrils approaching curiously. Sherlock had been led to a white-tailed deer overwintering place. The animals must've recognized John's smell; they didn't run off and kept watching with their necks and ears up. John waited until they got used to him, then he sat down in the snow, took some small frozen apples out of his pockets and spread them around him.

At first, the deer pretended they hadn't noticed. Then, slowly, the muzzles turned to John and a deer approached carefully, paused for a few seconds and closed the distance separating them. More deer followed its lead and very soon, half a dozen deer were surrounding John and feasting on the fruits he had brought.

John was a beast amongst the beasts and Sherlock found it wasn't a worrying sight. In fact, it was quite heartening. He wondered how many hours and how many days the other man had spent wandering around the region before he had managed to track the deer. How many hours, how many days he had watched out silently, accepting defeat every time the animals had scampered off upon detecting his scent, their small white tails standing like bouncing pennants in the forest. Then, one day, the deer hadn't run off. On that day, John probably hadn't tried anything, but he had kept coming back with his pockets full of fruits and he had offered them without asking for anything in return other than the right to be forgotten.

Sherlock emerged from his reverie to see a young deer grazing John's coat and he thought he heard the masked man giggle. The other animals were gone, but the small one was looking down with big pleading eyes and John dug up one last small apple from his coat pocket. The deer got hold of the fruit and ran off after the others.

Sherlock walked up to John and extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. He was glad to be there, not only because the sight had been fascinating, but also because he felt like he knew John a little better; he was patient and determined. Right now, he looked so serious and captivated by the grace of the moment that something playful was awakened in Sherlock. He followed John down the mountain, a small smile playing on his lips as he gathered some snow, formed a ball and threw it at John's back. John immediately turned around, his indignant look clearly visible despite the mask.

The look on John's face was so amusing, Sherlock couldn't resist. He let out a deep laugh, made another snowball and threw it at the other man's chest. Hearing that laugh loosened something in John and he retaliated with a snowball of his own, hitting Sherlock's arm. The game was on; the two men started chasing each other, hiding behind trees and throwing snow at each other until they reached the bottom of the mountain, both breathless and laughing. They had snow stuck in their hair, glistening like diamonds where it had started to melt, their gloves were wet and so were their trousers from crouching in the snow. John leaned back against a big tree trunk, catching his breath and dusting snow off his scarf and coat.

"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," he said between fits of giggles.

Still laughing, Sherlock leaned against the same tree, his arm pressed against John's. The air became charged with small snowflakes tormented by the wind; they seemed to be fluttering around instead of falling. It looked like thousands of miniature birds were invading the atmosphere, and Sherlock was reminded of his dream in which John had been swallowed by a feather storm. He could still hear the screams.

"I have invented a game. A treasure hunt," John said carefully.

Sherlock was all ears, waiting for John to continue.

"There are ten wonders – or treasures – I want to show you. The deer were the first one."

"In the end, what do I win?" Sherlock asked, amused.

"My heart," John replied gruffly.

Sherlock felt shivers running down his spine. Out of bravado, he darted his grey eyes on John, who felt observed and turned his head towards the other man. His eyes softened and he seemed to be regretting his harshness, he continued in a softer tone.

"You win beautiful images, memories, perceptions… feelings, maybe. My ten treasures are ten ways to convince you that I am not a prisoner. My sister is opposed to me seeing people. To people seeing me, actually. It's true and you can guess why, but I could do as I please. If I accept, it's because I want things to be the way they are."

He paused. "You are… the exception."

Sherlock agreed to play, of course he did. The afternoon they had just spent together had done nothing to quench his thirst for knowledge on John. If possible, he was even more interested. He was also a little smug; he had spent his whole life being disliked by almost everyone, to be the exception of someone who avoided the company of everyone was flattering.

Soon after, John told Sherlock to keep an eye open for his red scarf and they parted ways, Sherlock hoping it wouldn't be long before the signal was raised again.

:::

Several times a day, Sherlock ran to the shore of Sailboat Bay, his eyes scanning the horizon in case John had decided to tie his scarf again. Martha wasn't blind and it wasn't long before she noticed her nephew's increased round trips to the shore. She questioned him almost a dozen times before he finally caved in and told her about Lover's Island, the porcupine, the owl, the deer, the snow, and the treasure hunt.

"A treasure hunt? Well there's someone who knows how to hold your interest for longer than an hour," she said with a devious smile as she placed a cup of hot tea on the table in front of Sherlock.

"He's the most fascinating person I've ever met. At first it was just the mask, but it's not anymore, most of the time I hardly notice it. I'm most intrigued by this treasure hunt, the first step wasn't like anything I had ever seen before."

Martha let out a genuine laugh. "I'm sorry dear, but I can't picture you staying still for that long. You would be the last person I would bring with me if I wanted to feed deer."

"It wasn't difficult, I wasn't aware of the time passing. I didn't even want to move," Sherlock reflected as he thought of the peace he had felt when he had been with John.

"I'll believe it when I see it," she said, before adding, "I know you don't like repetition, but _be careful_."

She was worried, but a part of her was so grateful she could barely resist the temptation to dance. Sherlock had found a friend in Gregory Lestrade who, surprisingly, also seemed to enjoy Sherlock's company. Then, he had met John Watson and he too seemed to like Sherlock. Two friends, it was more than she had hoped for. On that night, while she was sitting outside, she told the stars about the new people in her nephew's life and from the way the stars were twinkling and blinking, she felt the sky was as excited as she was.

:::

Martha continued to watch as Sherlock ran to the shore several times per day and came back trying to hide his disappointment. All she could do was conceal her smile in her cup of tea and hope for the next meeting to come soon; Sherlock was on the verge of digging up a path in the ground from their house to the shore.

On a nice April afternoon, Martha was knitting in the living room when Sherlock stormed out of his room, ran down the stairs and announced that he was going out to study the migration patterns of the returning birds.

"Before you leave, can you walk to the shore and see if you can find my glove? I lost it yesterday while taking a walk and I think it could be in that area," she said while grinning behind what would eventually be a scarf as she pretended to count the stitches.

Sherlock found it suspicious; he hadn't noticed his aunt was missing a glove. However, he didn't mind walking along the shore, so he went without a word and he understood his aunt's manoeuvre when he looked towards West Birches Bay. John's scarf was floating in the wind. He had already checked twice in vain that day, so John had obviously waited for the sun to start its descent before sending the signal.

Forgetting all about the missing glove that probably wasn't even real, he enthusiastically started running towards the rendezvous point, silently cursing the ice field that prevented him from using his boat that was, by far, the fastest way to reach the other shore.

"I brought blankets, it's going to be cold," John said as soon as he saw Sherlock approaching, his cheeks reddened by the cold and the effort.

They walked side by side along the shore until John led them through the path ascending Enraged Cape. Some timid buds had stated to emerge and the air smelled like imminent spring, mud and melted snow. Looking back, Sherlock could see the manor; there was light in several windows.

"Is your sister home?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but she's drunk," John said while looking at his companion. "She'll be knocked out until at least tomorrow morning."

Sherlock wondered if John had waited for his sister to be completely drunk to tie his scarf. He wondered if deep down he was scared of her or if it was out of concern for Sherlock's safety. He thought that maybe Harry's threats hadn't been empty, that perhaps it was dangerous to venture around the manor. Nevertheless, it wasn't the kind of thing that would keep him off the forbidden grounds, especially if John was leading him there.

They followed the path until they reached the top of Enraged Cape. There, John found a large rock with a smooth surface and he climbed on top of it. Sherlock followed and John opened his bag to take out the heavy blankets he had brought with him. He handed one to Sherlock who wrapped it snugly around his shoulders while John did the same with his own blanket. For a long time, they stayed still and silent while Sherlock wondered what the second treasure was.

Sometimes, the wind blew harder. Nothing major, but the silence amplified everything and even the smallest murmur seemed deafening. The trees were stretching towards the sky and the small creaking sounds they made seemed loud enough to saturate the air around them. After a while, Sherlock realized the ice field was moaning, as though an animal under it was trying to escape. A long mumble was coming from the frozen sea, but one had to be very attentive to hear it. Then, he noticed the air was filled with the secret cackling of the forest behind them and the wind was blowing again. Softly.

The sky grew darker, as dark as the spruce's bark with blue reflections. Sherlock could feel John moving beside him and he realized how close they were, how intimate the proximity felt. Barely raising a hand would've been sufficient to touch the leather of the mask. He closed his eyes and could easily distinguish the smell of leather from the smell of John. Opening his eyes again, he turned his head towards his companion. Did he know he was being observed? The mask was well in place, concealing everything it was meant to conceal and it was too dark to see the shapes of the ravages under the thin leather.

Either John was feeling observed or he felt the shivers running through his companion's body. He turned around and Sherlock was surprised by the intensity of his eyes. In the twilight, they looked almost black and so close, so huge, that he felt intimidated, but didn't look away. John's pupils were barely distinguishable and the irises were streaked with glimmers, as if light could emanate from darkness. Sherlock finally looked away, shivering.

Noticing that Sherlock's shivers were getting worse, John closed the small distance remaining between them and flung his blanket over the other man's shoulders so it would cover them both. Their sides were pressed together from thighs to shoulders and suddenly, Sherlock couldn't feel the cold anymore. He felt the urge to wrap his arm around John, to feel the weight of his head on his shoulder, maybe even feel the leather against his skin and run his fingers through the soft-looking pale hair. The thought startled him; it wasn't something he had felt before and the sensation was foreign.

Just as he was about to analyze the strange vertigo that was taking hold of him, Sherlock was distracted by the moon. It had just started being visible over the trees and it was still pale and mysterious. They watched it in silence, observing the perceived changes in width as it got higher and higher. The sky was getting darker with each passing minute and more stars were becoming visible in a slow but steady rhythm.

"The night… second treasure," John whispered.

"My aunt loves the sky, especially at night. She talks to it," Sherlock said while grimacing at his aunt's eccentricity. For as long as he remembered, Martha had been fascinated by the stars and she had often tried to transfer her passion on to him, without success. Sherlock had never seen the interest, but on that cold evening, while sitting with John, he started to understand why his aunt loved it so much. It was soothing to look at the twinkling stars while the wind softly caressed his face.

"It's beautiful," Sherlock added and he wasn't quite sure if he was talking about the moon, the general atmosphere or the closeness, but his comment could've easily applied to any of the three.

Once the moon reached its peak, they extracted themselves from their improvised blanket fort and went their separate ways. As he walked towards Sailboat Bay, something felt heavy in Sherlock's chest and when he finally slid under his covers, his bed felt abnormally cold and empty compared to the flat rock on Enraged Cape.

:::

A/N: I'm posting earlier this week because I'm going to be away all day today (but hey, it's past midnight here so I suppose I'm still posting on Monday). I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the idea of the treasure hunt (Sherlock sure does).

I'm going to take a small hiatus while I'm on vacation, which means I won't be updating for the next two weeks. I hope you won't have lost interest in the story when I'll come back. Just in case here's a tiny glimpse of what you'll see in chapter eight: the appearance of a beloved character from the series and John's tale, in his own words (sorry, still giggling because of the Paris Cabin Pressure episode).


	8. Chapter 8

About two weeks after their night-time meeting when they had observed the moon, Sherlock saw the red scarf again. Even if winter was slowly turning into spring, the ice field was still solid enough for a grown man to stand on and he walked to the rendezvous point, feeling his heart beating abnormally fast in his chest. For the first time, John met him halfway close to Round Mountain. Sherlock had never seen him without his red scarf before; he had left it tied to the usual branch in West Birches Bay.

"What I want to show you is over there," John said, pointing at the open sea.

They headed north and walked on the ice field until they reached the edge. There was a low wall of ice blocks they swiftly climbed to discover free water as far as their eyes could see. Close to where they were kneeling, a flock of seals were frolicking about in ice-cold water. Sherlock had often seen seals playing in bays during spring; their playfulness was the reason they were nicknamed sea dogs. But this was unlike any seal game he had ever seen before; in the black sea where parts of ice plates still floated around, they looked ecstatic with joy. They rolled on the surface, splashed one another with big fin blows and jumped over each other before swimming forward at full speed just for the pleasure of causing collisions, before apologizing by rubbing their noses together. Some of them were climbing onto ice rafts and putting all their energy towards defending their tiny territory, until another seal successfully made them fall in a concert of lapping.

They seemed to be laughing and John was laughing with them, a sound so contagious Sherlock couldn't help joining in. For the biggest part of the afternoon, they watched as the seals played with each other, and they only returned to shore once it was too dark to enjoy the spectacle.

On that day, they talked as they had never talked before. Sherlock told John about his mother and her restlessness that had led her out of Sainte-Cécile. He told him about his father who had loved her so much it had destroyed him. He talked about his aunt Martha, her very short marriage and her love of the sky. He told him what it had been like growing up in Sainte-Cécile, about the violin and the science textbooks, about his deductions and the trouble they had gotten him into over the years, and about his first friend; Gregory Lestrade. John was an excellent listener and he managed to make Sherlock talk about topics that usually made him uncomfortable, but without the feeling of uneasiness he usually experienced. However, that wasn't the best part. The best thing about that evening was how much John opened up too and how fascinating his previous life had been, so much more than what Sherlock had deduced.

John was born in London in one of the richest families of England, he was four years younger than Harry and, even as children, they had never gotten along. Their father had always displayed flagrant favouritism towards his oldest child and, as soon as she had been old enough, he had started taking her everywhere with him. Like their father, Harry had a real passion for hunting and she was very skilled at it. John, on the other hand, couldn't understand why some people were interested in killing animals for pleasure, and he had spent most of his free time as a young student poring over books and playing rugby with his schoolmates. Life had been simple and quiet until their parents had been killed in a train derailment.

After that, it had been just Harry and him, but Harry had had Clara. She had met her while on a hunting trip in France and had been seduced by her pale skin and fiery red hair. Before Harry had brought her back to London, she hadn't even noticed that Clara's breasts had been full and her mouth inviting, that she had been kind, generous and funny. Always a hunter, she hadn't seen further than skin and fur. The three of them had lived in the huge family manor and, when John and Harry hadn't been shouting at each other, the atmosphere in the manor had been relatively peaceful.

John had gone to the University of London where he had gotten his medical degree before starting his training as an army surgeon. Soon after, he had left for India to join the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as an assistant surgeon, but upon his arrival in Bombay, a war had broken out in Afghanistan and he had been redirected to Kandahar. Following his arrival, he had entered his new duties immediately and, for a while, he had been happy doing his work and had enjoyed the daily dose of action. He was a very good surgeon with steady hands and nerves of steel, but the campaign that could have brought him promotion and honours turned into disaster during the battle of Maiwand.

A soldier of his regiment had been wounded and John had been trying to stop the blood flow. His attention had been completely focused on the dying man under him and he therefore hadn't seen the Jezail bullet coming. It had hit his cheek between his left eye and ear, shattering the cheekbone in the process. There had been so much blood covering the mess of bone, muscles and skin that they had believed him dead. Luckily, his orderly Bill Murray had realized John was still alive and he had thrown him onto a packhorse, ensuring his escape from the battlefield.

John should've died; a minor change in the bullet trajectory would have been fatal, but death wanted nothing to do with him. For long days he had rested in a hospital bed, trashing around as if he had been prey to a dozen dangerous creatures. It had been bad enough when it had only been the bullet injury, but when infection had taken hold of his wounds, it had gotten even worse. He had been delirious because of the fever, his eyes had been rolling almost constantly, and he had shouted himself hoarse like a wounded animal. The surgeons had tried their best to put his face back together, but there wasn't much they could do with the infection destroying more tissue every day. They had tried decreasing his pain with morphine and laudanum, but nothing had stopped his anguished screams.

Once he had been stable enough to be moved, he had been sent back to England on the HMS Orontes. In London, he had spent many months in the hospital until he had been discharged and had gone to live with Harry and Clara. He had endured sleepless nights of agonizing withdrawal before finally emerging from his personal hell and, at last, it had looked as if the worst days had been behind him. The road to recovery had been a long one, but eventually he had been well enough to leave his bed. Nonetheless, his face would never be the same again and while his body had recovered, making peace with his new appearance was easier said than done.

On a pleasant sunny morning, while he had been having tea with Clara, Harry had come back from another one of her hunting trips. When she had entered the room, John had turned around to greet her and she had let out a disgusted cry before stumbling out of the room. It had been the first time she had seen her brother without any bandages and the sight had horrified her. For John, it had been worst than being shot. At least after the injury there had been proof of physical harm, an open wound to show that he had been hurt. Harry's revulsion had been something else entirely; it had hurt almost as much as the bullet piercing his face, but it was all in his mind, he couldn't physically justify that kind of pain.

After that, John had locked himself up in his room and hadn't left for two days. Clara had talked to Harry, tried to get her to see that she still had a young brother under the injury and that he needed their support, but Harry had refused to listen. She had kept saying her brother had died at war and that she was in no way related to the monster that had come back.

When John had emerged from his room, he had been wearing a mask he had cut into a thin piece of leather Harry had bought and had intended to use to make a pair of gloves. John wanted to live, but he never wanted to see that hatred and disgust in anyone's eyes ever again. With the mask firmly in place and covering his injuries, Harry had gotten slightly used to his new appearance. However, their already bad relationship was broken beyond repair and they never interacted unless they had to.

"One day, Harry came back from a trip in Sainte-Cécile and announced we would be moving there a few months later. She never asked for my opinion, but I didn't mind, it's not as if I was leaving pleasant memories behind," John finished.

"Was it hard moving from a big city to a small village?" Sherlock asked, thinking about his mother who had done the same, but hadn't been able to stand the peace and quiet for very long.

"London was fun when I was a handsome bachelor, there was always something new to try, somewhere exciting to go. But in the end, when I wasn't leaving the house, it often felt suffocating. There are many places I can go here without running into anyone; it's a big improvement."

Only then did Sherlock truly understand that John really wasn't a prisoner of his sister. Not leaving their London house must have felt horrible in the end and, compared to that, the life he was living in Sainte-Cécile seemed infinitely better. It was hard for him to imagine John as a handsome bachelor with a swarm of ladies at his feet. Hard to picture him as a student on a university bench, or as a soldier laughing with his peers. After all, he had only known him as The Beast, but he had lived so many lives before moving here. Again, Sherlock was riveted.

They were sitting in the cold sand of the shore when John finished his story and, without the heavy weight of blankets on their shoulders, they were freezing. Still, they were both reluctant to leave, but it was getting very late and they got up after a little bit of stalling to go their separate ways. Sherlock had only taken a few steps when John cried out after him.

"Yes John?" Sherlock said as he turned around to look at his friend. In the darkness, he could barely make out his silhouette.

"I'm not glad I got shot. But I'm glad it brought me here," John let out.

Sherlock paused for a moment, drinking in John's words before smiling.

"I'm glad you're here, too."

:::

For many weeks, no scarf was spotted between the trees of West Birches Bay and Sherlock was growing impatient as he tried to guess what the next treasure would be. Around that time, Gregory finally gathered enough courage to ask for Sarah Sawyer's hand in marriage, and no one was surprised when she accepted. However, many were astonished when Sherlock agreed to be Gregory's best man (as long as the wedding wasn't held on what he called a 'scarf day'). He wasn't that hard to convince; all Gregory had to say was that it was part of The Friendship Code and that he would not be forced to dance with Molly – the maid of honour – even if it was encouraged.

In May, seagull cries were once again resounding in the bright spring sky, cormorants were drying off their wings on the rocks uncovered by the tide, seals were growling and biting just for the fun of it while ducks were parading. The bays of Sainte-Cécile were vibrant with a renewed life. More than ever, Sherlock was drawn to the shore of Sailboat Bay where he could easily see the tree to which the scarf had been tied before.

Gregory and Martha had seen some changes in Sherlock since the treasure hunt had begun. He was still conducting various experiments, but his senses seemed sharper and he genuinely paid attention to the colours, sounds, scents, and images surrounding him. Nature was not only data; it had become something worthy of his full attention. He was also talking more, albeit only to the small group of people close to him, and it wasn't unusual to see him lost in thoughts, smiling to himself. He wasn't as restless as he used to be, and he could easily spend long moments sitting on a rock by the sea, eyes closed and deep in thoughts while enjoying the feeling of sea spray hitting his skin.

Sherlock had to wait until June for the red scarf to fly again in West Birches Bay and, when he arrived at the meeting point in his rowboat, John was untying his scarf from the branch. He wrapped it around his neck despite the warm weather and when he didn't say anything to justify the long wait Sherlock frowned.

"I almost sent you a new scarf, I thought you might have lost this one," he said, sounding more like an offended child than the grown man he was.

John ignored the comment and led Sherlock to Lover's Island, choosing the same path they had taken during their first visit together. The eiders had vacated their nests and the feathers had been scattered around by the wind. They managed to spy on a few ducklings as they stumbled down a small rock mound to catch up with their cousins in the water. Quickly dizzied by their first outing, most of them ended up tumbling head over tail into the water, quacking victoriously to express their pride.

Behind some bushes, John found a female too weak to leave her nest. With Sherlock's help, he fed her clams and gave her water before searching the rest of the island's beach for more helpless females. They helped four more, feeding and rehydrating them with hope they would eventually be strong enough to return to sea.

"Do you do this every year?" Sherlock asked once they were done.

"Yes," John answered, "the females sacrifice themselves for their ducklings, I think it's only fair to help those who are too weak to leave their nests."

"Sacrifice? It's in their nature to do so."

"If the females leave their nests, seagulls will eat their eggs, so they starve themselves during the brooding month to protect them. Most of the females loose half their weight in the process, they leave the nest temporarily only if the seagulls are busy elsewhere, but as long as the sky is swarming with birds, they do without water. I call that a sacrifice. The ducklings of the too weak females usually survive and manage to reach the water where another duck takes care of them."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully and helped John gather some clams for themselves. Like he had done the first time, John opened them on a small fire and they ate while chatting pleasantly. Once they were done, John got up and extended his hand to help Sherlock to his feet.

"Come, I want to show you something. I think you'll like it."

Sherlock followed John to his hut, closing the door behind them. Things had changed since their last visit. The table was still there, but a second chair had been added and Sherlock couldn't hide his smile as he thought the chair may have been placed there specifically for him. The porcupine skeleton wasn't on the table anymore, having been replaced by a human skull.

He had read about human anatomy in books he kept in the many bookshelves in his and Aunt Martha's living room, but this was the first human skull he was seeing with his own eyes and he was fascinated. Without waiting for an invitation to touch, Sherlock sat down on 'his' chair and delicately picked up the skull, treating it like the most precious thing in the world.

"Where did you find this?" Sherlock asked.

"In Salty Swamp. I didn't find the rest of him; there was only the skull with very little still attached to it. It must've been there for many years, but I can't tell exactly how much. I brought it back and boiled it, like the animal bones I find."

"It's beautiful. Tell me about it."

John smiled at Sherlock's admiring expression and he sat down beside him. He put his left hand on the skull, where the forehead would've been and started reciting the names of the different bones.

"That's the frontal bone," John said before moving his hand to the back, "the parietal, then occipital bone."

His hand shifted again to rest on the side of the skull.

"Temporal bone."

Sherlock was listening, fascinated. He had seen many images showing the different cranial bones, but it was nothing compared to observing them on a real skull. He felt as though his anatomy textbooks had come alive and he wished John had found a whole skeleton, but this was good. He was still holding the skull when John's hand brushed over his as he said:

"Maxilla, mandible…"

Once John was done reciting the names of the bones, he let go of the skull but Sherlock continued to caress it.

"What else can you tell me about it?" Sherlock asked.

"Look at how smooth it is, the obliterating process of the sutures was well advanced; the man was most likely over sixty when he died. I suppose it was a man because of the prominent brow ridge, the slanting frontal bone and the squared mandible. I can't tell how he died, but the skull shows no signs of trauma, so he wasn't hit over the head."

Sherlock was amazed; John also had deducing skills. But, while Sherlock used his powerful observation techniques on the livings, John could deduce a lot just by looking at a skull.

"Fascinating," Sherlock exclaimed.

"I thought you would like it," John told him, "I picked it up for you. I want you to have it.

Sherlock had never received a better gift. His eyes were shining with a thousand sparks and his smile had rarely been so wide. Unsure of how to express the extent of his gratitude, he put the skull back on the table, grabbed both of John's hands between his and thanked him multiple times. John was delighted by Sherlock's joy and flashed him an equally wide smile.

The rest of the day was spent observing the skull some more, Sherlock taking mental notes on the thickness of bones, number of remaining teeth, circumference of orbits, and more. He could already think of seven experiments he wanted to do with his skull – nothing damageable – and he relegated them into the back of his mind for days when waiting for John's signal would get particularly tedious. Before they parted, John told Sherlock he intended to raise the signal in the following days and that they were to meet in Salty Swamp.

While he was rowing back to Sailboat Bay, Sherlock could see that John was still on the shore, watching him leave, and the sight made something flutter in his stomach.

"Can I bring the skull?" he yelled, and he thought he heard the other man laugh, but it could've been the lapping of the waves around him.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Back on my regular updating schedule! I'm very sorry for the prolonged hiatus and I want to thank everyone who is still reading. To everyone who tracks, favourites, or reviews my story: I thank you. There are no words to express how ecstatic it makes me to see your support. I'm still far from the end, but I hope you're enjoying John's treasure and the development of their friendship.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock opened his eyes, and John was standing at the end of his bed; his scarf tied around his neck and eyes glimmering over a charming smile. Like he had done on their brief first meeting, he pressed his index finger to his lips. Then, John climbed onto the bed and crawled over Sherlock until he was straddling his hips. Sherlock could feel the warmth of his friend's thigh on his sides, and he held his breath. His heart was beating so fast, he could barely hear anything else. John lowered himself until his lips was only an inch away from Sherlock's right ear. Then, he started whispering the names of the bones in the human skull while Sherlock buried his fingers in John's hair, massaging his scalp tenderly.<em>

"_Nasal, lacrimal, zygomatic…." _

_Sherlock had to bite down a moan. Something was burning low in his stomach, but it wasn't painful; the burn felt heavenly, almost liberating. He lowered his hand to John's neck, stroking carefully over the thin strands holding the mask in place. It would have been so easy to untie them and take a proper look at John's ravaged face, but he didn't consider doing it; John trusted him enough to get that close, and that meant more than satisfying his curiosity._

"_Maxilla, volmer, mandible…." _

_John's left hand caressed Sherlock's jaw as he delicately kissed a sensitive spot just under Sherlock's ear. John's lips felt warm and supple, and Sherlock could feel his skin burning up as his friend's lips traveled from his ear to his chin, kissing every inch along the way._

"_Sphenoid, ethmoid…" _

_John's lips were hovering over Sherlock's, who looked into his friend's wide blue eyes. His pupils were dilated, almost no colour was visible, but he could read so much into these eyes. He saw desire, trust, tenderness, and then nothing at all as John closed his eyes, whispered, "Sherlock…" and kissed him fully on the lips._

Sherlock woke up with his heart pounding so hard he could feel it everywhere in his body. His cotton nightshirt was sticking to his chest, and he was panting. He could still feel his insides burning, and there was a pleasant tingling in his thighs. He looked down under the covers before closing his eyes and rolling onto his side, curling into a ball. It was far from being his first unwanted erection, but the feeling of being utterly consumed by both lust and guilt was unfamiliar. His insides were twisting unpleasantly, and he could feel his blood pumping in his groin; his body had never given him such contradictory responses. He knew a few strokes would've been enough to bring release, but the prospect felt cold and impersonal, so he concentrated on regulating his breathing, knowing the bittersweet torture would eventually subside.

The skull was grinning at him from his bedside table and, in an attempt to distract himself, Sherlock recalled his aunt's horrified look when he had shown her his present. She had categorically refused his proposal to put it on the mantle and had threatened to throw it out if she ever saw it anywhere other than his bedroom. So here they were, the skull and him, staring at each other in the hot summer night. It was the last thing Sherlock saw before sleep claimed him again.

The next day was a Sunday, and Martha had already left for church when Sherlock woke up. He brought the skull with him in the kitchen while waiting for the water to boil. In the bright morning light, the skull didn't look as if it were grinning anymore; it looked judgmental. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Of course the skull would be judgmental, it had seen in what condition his owner had woken up during the night. The first night after it had been offered as a gift from John. Now that was something to be ashamed of.

"Stop looking at me like that," Sherlock told the skull as he poured boiling water into a cup and dropped a small tea bag into it. He got no response.

"I'm a grown man; it's a normal physiological reaction. You should know that, you were a living man once."

The skull remained silent, but that wasn't surprising. What was bewildering was the fact that he was trying to have a conversation with a skull.

"This is preposterous," he said before turning away from the skull's condemning glare.

He finished his tea, returned the skull to his bedroom, and left the house. As usual, he made his way to the shore, looking for John's red scarf, but the trees held no invitation. Disappointed, he decided to walk to the village. He knew Gregory would be in church, most people were, but he had things to discuss and he didn't want to talk at dinner in front of Aunt Martha and the whole Lestrade family. It was easy to pick the lock and sneak into the store – far too easy – he would have to tell Mr. Lestrade about more effective security measures. He sat at the chess table and waited for Gregory's return.

He didn't have to wait that long for Gregory to open the door cautiously. His hesitation spoke volume; he clearly remembered locking it before leaving for church and was surprised to find it ajar. Probably fearing that whoever had broken in was still inside, Gregory entered extremely carefully. His muscles were tensed; he was ready to fight.

"Enjoyed the homily?" Sherlock asked and his deep voice echoed through the store, making Gregory jump.

"Sherlock!" Gregory exclaimed, his whole body relaxing instantly when he realized that yes, the store had been broken in, but the perpetrator was far from threatening.

"How good to see you, please do come in and make yourself comfortable," he added playfully before sitting in his usual chair in front of the white pieces. He hardly took the time to think before he played his favourite opening move: pawn to d4.

"Really Gregory, again?" Sherlock asked with the hint of a smile, and he mirrored the action, his own pawn moving to d5. Then, he thought there was no reason delaying the conversation he wanted to have, and he bluntly asked:

"How are things going between you and Sarah?"

Gregory moved a knight to f3.

"We will get married, so of course things are going well. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock ignored the question, and advanced his pawn to e6.

"Have you been intimate?"

"Sherlock! You can't ask things like that! It's private!"

"I _need_ to know. It's very important information, don't be coy."

Gregory leaned back in his chair, fingers entwined.

"Well if you _need_ to know, we haven't gone further than kissing. Her parents have somewhat old-fashioned values, and she says pleasures of the flesh are for married couples."

Sherlock scoffed, and Gregory laughed.

"Don't be like that, it's not an uncommon principle. But what can I do? I love her, and if the price I have to pay to cherish her the rest of my life is a bit of waiting, then it's not much is it?"

Gregory moved his pawn to e3.

"Seriously Sherlock, why do you ask?"

"An experiment in human relationships," Sherlock answered noncommittally, and he moved his pawn to c5.

Gregory suspected there was more behind the inquiry. He looked at Sherlock and tried to find the real motive behind the question, but if there were something more than what Sherlock was letting on, Gregory couldn't see it.

"You have had intercourse before," Sherlock announced. "In a large city, not everyone has his nose buried in other people's business and, provided that you remained discreet, you could have gotten away with far worse than intercourse."

"Are you telling me or asking me?" Gregory asked because, with Sherlock, sometimes it was hard to tell. He had done that countless time since they had first met: deducing things and getting annoyed when Gregory answered what he thought were questions.

"I was merely observing," Sherlock said.

"Of course you were," Gregory replied, trying to sound peeved, but truthfully, he was pretty amused by the discussion and extremely curious as to why his friend was talking about matters they had never discussed before.

"What about you? Have you ever been with someone else… intimately?" Gregory asked.

"You're not entirely stupid, I'm certain you could deduce that by yourself," Sherlock answered, and Gregory wanted to kick himself for being so unobservant. Sherlock had never had a real friend, and he had belittled romantic attachment plenty of times in the past; obviously he had never been with anyone in that way.

"Do you think you'll ever marry?"

Sherlock's response was immediate, "Dull."

Then, he seemed to think for a moment before he asked, "Do you dream of Sarah sometimes?"

Gregory coughed and turned bright red. He didn't need to talk; Sherlock could easily identify the signs of embarrassment. It was a relief to know he wasn't the only one blushing because of vivid dreams. However, Gregory and Sarah were in love and engaged while he and John were friends. A scolding voice inside his mind kept insisting that dreams that left you sweating, panting, and hard were not part of the Friendship Code, and he felt even worse than he had the night before.

Gregory was even more curious than he had been when Sherlock had first brought the subject up. He was used to his friend's shameless questions, but this felt different; it didn't seem as though Sherlock was gathering information for the sake of doing so. He looked like someone trying to obtain data to answer a personal inquiry. Suddenly, Gregory was reminded of Sherlock's vivid interest in one particular issue, one subject he never tired of discussing. He couldn't resist investigating and pushing the matter a little further.

"Sherlock, is this about John Watson?"

"Of course not!" he replied, but Gregory wasn't fully convinced.

For all he knew, his friend could be attracted to men; same-sex couples weren't that unusual after all, and only a minority considered those unions a sin. Harry Watson had been married to a woman before arriving in Sainte-Cécile, and although a lot of bad had been said about her, her choice of partner had rarely been frowned upon. Furthermore, two men – Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran – were living together, and the villagers were very fond of them. Still, Sherlock had never expressed being attracted to any woman or man, so it was unsettling to think of him as a man with a sexual orientation, whichever it was.

"It's your turn."

Gregory was shaken out of his reverie by Sherlock's imperious tone, and he looked at the pieces for a moment before moving a pawn to c4. Sherlock, having anticipated the move, rolled his eyes and moved his knight to c6.

"You know, if you ever need some help with your experiment on human relationship, you can ask me," Gregory offered.

"I thought that's what I was doing right now," Sherlock answered and he tilted his head slightly, looking at his friend with a confused expression.

Finally, Sherlock's rook gave the final blow, but Gregory was so used to defeat he didn't truly care anymore. During the afternoon, he tried discussing dreams again, but his attempts were unsuccessful. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson arrived for dinner, and they had to abandon the chess table. Like they did every Sunday, they sat around the Lestrades' table and enjoyed a lovely meal, but Sherlock looked more distracted than usual throughout the whole evening.

:::

It took only two days before Sherlock saw John's scarf floating in West Birches Bay and, as discussed, they met in Salty Swamp. Sherlock hadn't had any other John-filled dreams, but the memory of that night could still make his knees weak, and he couldn't shake the guilty feeling suffocating him. John had accepted to trust him, had made him the exception, and he felt as though he had betrayed that trust and had been rendered unworthy of the privilege. He knew he was being unreasonable, that John couldn't possibly know about the dream, but it did nothing to assuage his guilty conscience.

Sherlock felt uneasy when, upon arriving, John helped him pull his boat out of the water and onto the shore. Luckily, his embarrassment vanished when he saw John's glittering eyes and his bright smile under the leather mask. He could finally breathe without the unpleasant feeling that something exceptionally large was crushing his lungs, and the perception that tiny insects were crawling under his skin receded. He felt better than he had felt in days, there were no traces of the guilt and shame he had felt in the previous days, only John's calming presence he felt the urge to take John's hand, Sherlock didn't resist. His aunt often held his hand for various reasons, one of them being the need to demonstrate joy. He was happy to see John, and holding his hand seemed like a decent enough way to communicate that.

"Where are you taking me today?" he asked.

John didn't respond. He just stared at their entwined fingers as though he had never seen two joined hands before. Sherlock's fingers were unusually long and thin, while John's were darker, shorter, and thicker. It was a captivating sight; Sherlock found it difficult to tear his gaze away and, when John started walking, he didn't let go of his hand.

The tide was low; therefore, the swamp was almost devoid of salted water and they easily walked through the wetland, the reed gently brushing against their they reached a secluded area, John stopped. He didn't need to request silence, Sherlock understood they needed to keep remarkably quiet and motionless when he saw the delicate figures scattered across the high herbs. Every noise and every move seemed momentous.

Several Great Blue Herons were feasting on insects and small fishes that had been carried along by the tide and had remained trapped when it had retreated. For a long time, Sherlock and John observed the magnificent creatures: their slow walk, their tall slender legs, their diving beaks, and their long flexible necks. Away from the others, one of the herons was standing perfectly still, pretending not to want anything until a prey appeared. Then, with astounding rapidity, he snatched the insect with his sharp beak.

Later, the wind turned. There wasn't a single warning sound or any sign leading to the heron's imminent departure. It was therefore a surprise when, in one single movement and in perfect harmony, the necks abruptly stood up. The herons looked at the empty sky, stretched their massive wings and, together, they flew up to the sky. Just like that, it was over.

"Fifth treasure," Sherlock whispered so softly he didn't think John could've heard.

John turned to face Sherlock.

"If you were an animal, you would be a Great Heron."

"Why?"

"They're incredibly tall," he said while smiling, "and so gracious, but unlike some other animals, they aren't aware of it. They don't try to amaze, gracious is just the way nature has made them."

He paused for a moment before continuing.

"There is a kind of arrogance in their posture. They can be terribly solitary animals, although they don't object to the company of others."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. He had never tried comparing himself to any animal, but listening to the way John described the Great Herons, he had to admit it was quite flattering. Especially since John had used his arrogance – something people usually didn't appreciate about him – to compare him to the beautiful, elegant animal. He hadn't done it sarcastically or to mock it, he had spoken fondly.

Fascinating.

"What about you? What animal would you be?" he asked.

"Come, I'll show you," John said as he pulled on Sherlock's hand, urging him to follow as he walked to their rendezvous point of the day in Salty Swamp.

"Sixth treasure," he said.

Close to Sherlock's rowboat, there was a cormorant sitting on the dry part of a reef almost entirely flooded by the sea. John kneeled in the grass, and Sherlock followed. They stayed still for almost an hour, watching the bird perched on the highest rock as it offered its water-soaked wings to the sun and the wind.

Cormorants weren't a mystery to Sherlock; he knew the beautiful and majestic birds suffered from a curious handicap. Their wings were partly permeable, which was helpful when they had to dive into the water, but rendered them heavier when their feathers were gorged with water. That explained why they were so often seen sitting on rocks, wings spread and looking sad while patiently waiting to regain their ability to fly.

In his life, he had seen dozens of cormorants drying off their wings. Yet, on that day, maybe because he had stopped to be genuinely attentive or because he had stayed still for so long watching it, something was different. He felt as though he could perceive the cormorant's melancholy. When finally the bird spread its wings, felt their lightness, shook them a few times and flew away, Sherlock felt like applauding. The jolly lightness he felt in his chest as he watched the bird getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared had nothing to do with what he had felt when the herons had taken flight. While he had been disappointed to see the herons leave, it was a relief to know the cormorant could fly again.

"I understand the resemblance," he told John.

"They aren't sad," John said with a small smile, "but they have to live with their handicap."

"Before I spent the night in your manor, by the foxes' enclosure, what happened?"

For a while, John didn't say anything. He got up, letting go of Sherlock's hand, and led them away from the burning summer sun and into the forest until he found an adequate place to they were settled comfortably, John seemed to hesitate for a moment. He stared at Sherlock's long fingers until he made up his mind and entwined their fingers again. Sherlock gently squeezed John's hand, something Aunt Martha used to do when he was younger and telling her about those tormenting him at school. It seemed to have the same soothing effect on John, and he finally answered the question.

"Sometimes, I imagine there never was an accident. I came back intact from Afghanistan, I am a doctor, and everything is still within my reach. It's easy to invent thousands of lives for myself. Then, I emerge from my dreams with my false identity and it always takes a few minutes before I remember the mask and what it's hiding. The last time it happened, you caught me."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand tighter and urged him to tell him more about his former accepted, and he told him about Clara's support and about how she had persuaded him to try resuming his previous life when he had been healed enough to leave the bed. It hadn't gone as well as hoped; his old friends were reluctant to look at him, even with the mask on.

"At that point, it looked even worse than it does now, and the mask couldn't perfectly cover everything. My friends' looks of disgust were worse than Harry's had been. She had seen the whole thing while my friends couldn't begin to imagine and still, the mask made them cringe. The screaming children didn't help…."

Sherlock couldn't prevent the small chuckle escaping his lips and John used their entwined hands to hit him playfully on the shoulder.

"Oh stop it, it was horrible. I would go out for a walk with Clara and every single child we encountered would start screaming bloody murder. I got tired of it very quickly, and eventually stopped leaving the house altogether."

"Children can be awful," Sherlock agreed and it was John's turn to chuckle.

"Yes, they can be. So I was now spending all my time in our house, but Clara was still very supportive. She lent me some books and made me discover Balzac, Dumas, Stendhal, Laclos, Hugo…."

Seeing Sherlock's puzzled expression, he explained.

"They are authors, don't you know them? I thought you read a lot."

"I've never read fiction, only textbooks. Fiction is a waste of time."

"You're missing something, then, it's really not," John said and Sherlock shrugged, unconvinced.

"At first, the books were only a way to pass the time," John continued, "but very soon they became much more than that. At that point, Harry was either on a hunting trip or drunk out of her mind, and I always suspected Clara would've left her if it weren't for me. About two years after that, we came here."

The story couldn't end there. Now that Sherlock knew how important Clara had been to John, he had to know what had happened on the boat. So he asked, and it was John's turn to squeeze Sherlock's hand tighter, as though he was trying to gather up enough courage to continue.

"Harry wanted an heir. Preferably an unharmed strapping boy, a boy to continue the Watson lineage; something she knew I would never do. The fact that they were both women never stopped her, and after much pleading on Harry's part, Clara was persuaded to visit a… a very dodgy place where men sell their semen to women who wish to procreate, but can't."

Sherlock was stunned.

"I never knew such places existed!"

"It would never work in a place like Sainte-Cécile, but London is big enough for the whole process to remain anonymous. So Harry picked the tallest, strongest, and most handsome man available, she paid him a hefty sum, and he took Clara to a small room where the, err… transfer was made."

"It worked?"

"On their first attempt. When Clara was three months pregnant, the manor on Spruce Cape was ready and we left to come here. Unfortunately, she miscarried during the crossing and started bleeding profusely. I did all I could to keep her alive, but I had very limited supplies and eventually, she died."

John was squeezing his hand so tightly it was painful, but the thought of disengaging their fingers never crossed Sherlock's mind.

"When she died, I felt as though I was dying too. She was the only one who loved me despite my appearance. I often took the mask off when I was alone in my room, touching my face as an attempt to get used to it. Clara knew, and sometimes she came into my room, sat beside me, and stroked my face – my whole face – with her soft hands. I miss her so much…."

It now seemed obvious where John's red scarf came from, and why he was almost never seen without it. Sherlock wanted to do something comforting, but his knowledge in that area was somewhat limited, so he tried to imagine what his aunt would have done if she had been in the same situation. Physical contact, probably. Aunt Martha always hugged her friends when they sought support. However, his current position wasn't favourable to proper hugging. Instead, he followed the urge he had had while they had been watching the moon freed his hand, scooted closer to John and wrapped one of his long arms around his shoulders. Instantly, John buried his face in Sherlock's pale neck and it was so easy, so simple; he looked as though he belonged there.

The rest of his story was muffled by Sherlock's neck.

"Harry never got over Clara's death. Between the hunting trips and the alcohol, she never managed to find balance. She still has me, but she can neither look at me nor bear the looks of the people who see me. I do what she wants because I don't actually want to interact with others, and I know how crucial it is to her, how badly she needs to be protected."

Once John was done talking, Sherlock gave in to the temptation and buried his fingers deep into John's hair, stroking his scalp low on his skull where head turns into neck. It felt even softer than it had in his dream and Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations setting his skin on fire. The mask was smooth and warm where it was pressed against his neck, but it was nothing compared to the feel of John's skin against his own.

"I'm sorry, I'm not being terribly manly," John said after a while.

"It wouldn't be if I were a swooning lady. I don't think there's anything wrong with it when two friends are involved. There's probably a clause about it in The Friendship Code, I should ask Gregory…."

"What's the Friendship Code?" John asked, welcoming the distraction from his sorrow.

"Some rules friends are meant to follow. Like being each other's best man, keeping each other's secrets, and not wooing the woman the other is courting. Things like that."

John laughed, and Sherlock felt relieved and a little proud that his comforting strategy seemed to be a success. However, he didn't move in case John needed to be comforted some more. Also, it felt nice and warm to be sitting there with him.

"Tell me about those rules friends are supposed to follow. It's been a while since I've had a friend, I'm out of practice."

So Sherlock told him about Gregory Lestrade and what he had learned since the two of them had become friends. He was aware that he was rambling, but he wanted to distract John and this seemed to be working. Eventually, they disentangled their limbs and returned to their own homes, but not before the sun had gone down, chased by the moon.

Unfortunately, they never saw the two pairs of eyes watching their embrace from a distance.


	10. Chapter 10

In August, most of the villagers got tremendously excited by the announcement that Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty would be hosting a whopping picnic in their yard. Somewhere along the years, they had become famously known for their ability to organize fantastic gatherings, and no one doubted the picnic would be no exception. Martha was attending – once again helping out with the food – and so were the Lestrades. It was surprisingly easy to convince Sherlock to attend, but he had been in a splendidly jolly mood for the last weeks. So much so that he probably would've agreed to accompany his aunt to church, despite the fact that it wasn't Christmas, if she had bothered to ask.

The weather was beautiful, and the sun had just begun to set. The wind was blowing hard enough to cool down those who were dancing, but not so much as to chill those who weren't. Gregory had brought his guitar along, and had joined the small group of other villagers who had also brought instruments. It was an attempt to impress his fiancée, who was now dancing with her best friend Molly Hooper; both of them laughing as they twirled around, their long skirts floating around their legs.

The food was delicious; the meat was tender, the corn was sweet, and very soon everyone's stomachs were full, but bottles of wine were still being regularly opened. Those who weren't dancing were chatting happily while watching the sunset, and everyone had turned down Mrs. Turner's offer of more dessert at least twice.

Martha had danced with both their hosts for the evening, and was now being led around the improvised dance floor by her nephew. They swayed gracefully while a slower song was played, and when the musicians switched to a faster tempo, Sherlock didn't let go, much to her surprise and delight. She laughed like a little girl until the music ended, and Sherlock grabbed her shoulders to loudly kiss both her cheeks. Sweat was glistening on his forehead, he was short of breath, and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing his slightly flushed neck. Molly was watching from where she was now sitting, quickly whispering into Sarah's ear.

Sherlock slumped down on an empty chair close to where Jonathan Anderson and Sally Donovan were sitting. Had he paid them more than a fleeting glance, he would've noticed the suspicious looks the two kept throwing him. Sherlock wasn't alone for long, though, it only took a few minutes before Molly, encouraged by her best friend, sat beside him.

"It's a lovely evening, isn't it?" she asked.

He eyed her curiously; surprised that someone out of his familiar circle of acquaintances was talking to him.

"It's not too unpleasant," he answered tentatively.

"You looked like you had fun with Mrs. Hudson."

He rolled his eyes, knowing where this conversation was heading, and hoping Molly would get to the point so he could turn her down again. When he didn't respond, she continued.

"I'm having fun too, but unfortunately no man has asked me to dance yet."

Again, Sherlock remained silent, and Molly took this as an indication to continue.

"Would you like to? Dance, I mean. You're quite good."

"I've answered that question before, and my answer hasn't changed. It's still no."

Jonathan and Sally had obviously been paying attention to the scene happening not too far from them, and as Molly turned away from Sherlock to go back to her best friend, Jonathan got up.

"What's wrong Holmes, too much breasts for you?"

"Don't be obscene, Anderson."

Jonathan got closer to Sherlock, aware that people were staring at them; he was obviously enjoying being the center of attention.

"Perhaps you would rather dance with me?"

There wasn't a shred of sincerity in his tone, and when he extended a hand to take Sherlock's, the gesture wasn't tender, but filled with mockery. Sally laughed in the background, and Sherlock jerked away from the man invading his personal space.

"What's wrong? Am I too good looking for you? Would you rather I put on a mask?" Anderson asked, snickering.

As soon as Jonathan said the words, Sherlock knew John and he had been spotted in one of their outings. The only reason the whole village wasn't talking about it yet was most likely because Jonathan had waited for such an occasion in order to make more damage. Sherlock chose to remain silent; anything he would say on the subject would only encourage , he turned away to leave.

"Sodomite!" Anderson cried out after him, and Sherlock froze.

Perhaps Jonathan had forgotten who had organized the picnic, perhaps he didn't care, but Sebastian Moran, who was standing close by and watching the scene, couldn't let that one slip. His moustache was shivering with rage, and when he spoke, his voice filled the air and startled his guests more effectively than if a cannon had been fired.

"Young man! I will not tolerate such heinous language on my property. You can either apologize or leave."

Sally Donovan got up at once to defend her friend.

"He will not apologize, it's not his fault Sherlock and The Beast are doing things God would be ashamed of. Bestiality is a sin!"

There were whispers among the villagers. Sherlock couldn't hear everything, but even someone without his intellect would have understood they were talking about John and him. Unlike Jonathan Anderson, most people didn't have a problem with the fact that Sherlock and John were both male, but they barely considered John human, and they found it unnatural for him and Sherlock to be sneaking around in forests. If they wanted to build a relationship – and most of them thought Sherlock was peculiar enough to build a relationship with The Beast – they had to do it properly. Which meant taking a chaperon with them and refraining from canoodling when they were out (if not at all).

No one seemed surprised by Jonathan's words. After all, they were saying, Sherlock's parents had both been slaves to their urges. His mother had left with another man despite being married, and his father had abandoned a motherless child to run after her. Sherlock had always been strange, and he had never sought the company of others; it was only natural that he would be drawn to an animal. As for The Beast, he most likely didn't have any impulse control, and was undoubtedly acting upon his instincts.

Martha, like Sherlock, could hear most of what the villagers were saying, and she rushed to her nephew's side, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Come, we're leaving," she told him.

Sherlock was shaking with anger, furious that someone had tried to cheapen the friendship John and he had. He could hear the whispers, feel the curious stares burning holes through his skin, and he could practically see the rumours being created. With one last hateful glare directed at Anderson, he followed his aunt home.

Gregory Lestrade watched the retreating steps of his friend, and he felt a wave of anger rolling through him. Sarah took his hand, feeling how upset he was, but he couldn't stand to watch the scene without intervening. He knew Sherlock better than anyone there, he even knew _John_ better than anyone there. Not personally, but Sherlock had told him enough for him to know the masked man was a very kind and gentle person. Gregory let go of his fiancée's hand, and strode angrily to the middle of the gathered crowd. He studied the villagers' expressions, and what he saw wasn't reassuring; he could feel the scandal boiling under the surface, and their hunger for gossip was palpable. He was disgusted.

"Almost all his life, Sherlock has been tormented by most of you. You called him strange, laughed at his appearance, and judged his parents."

Talking fuelled his anger and his voice was shaking, so he paused for a moment to glare at those who, he knew, had been the most horrible to Sherlock.

"I was wondering why he was so isolated, why he wasn't making any attempt to get closer to people, and why he seemed so indifferent. Now I know. It's because you're not worth it!"

The best among them dropped their heads and averted their eyes. The rest of them pretended to defy Gregory, but couldn't really manage to meet his furious eyes.

"Sherlock will never defend himself, because he doesn't need to. But I will tell you something, and I will tell you only once. The man you call The Beast is Sherlock's friend. Unlike you, he didn't judge him based on his physical appearance. I've been living here for a while now, and I know I won't stop you from spreading rumours and speaking ill about my friend, but I think it's shameful and pathetic."

With these words, Gregory was done, and he stormed out under the villagers' dumbfounded eyes. Sarah, Molly, and the other Lestrades followed him; it was their way of showing their support. None of them knew about the friendship between Sherlock and the youngest Watson, but they knew Jonathan Anderson had hated Sherlock since they had first met, and therefore thought he had limited credibility. Plus, the Lestrades had grown to appreciate the unusual man who was sharing their table almost every Sunday. As for Molly, she was completely smitten with Sherlock, so she was instantly on his side.

Soon after, Sebastian and Jim sent everyone home, but stayed outside to watch the stars while Mrs. Turner cleaned the remnants of the party. Sebastian wrapped one muscled arm around his husband's waist, and pressed a loving kiss to his temple.

"Well, that certainly takes me back," he said.

Jim let out a soft laugh, resting his head on Sebastian's shoulder.

:::

The next day, Mrs. Lestrade replaced her son in the store so he could walk all the way to Sherlock's house to see how he was doing. Gregory knew that while Sherlock had been in school, he hadn't been the kind of child to trouble himself with what the others had been saying about , Gregory suspected this was different; people weren't only talking about Sherlock, John was also involved. Gregory knew it helped Sherlock process things when he talked aloud, so he was prepared to offer him someone to talk at.

On his way, he stopped in Damase Bay for a quick rest; with his jobs at the sawmill and the store, he wasn't in as good a shape as Sherlock who spent his days running around. Breathing a little heavier than usual, he looked around, and something caught his attention. Towards the east, something was tied to a tree. Something red. He recognized the signal Sherlock had told him all about. Gregory sighed in relief before turning back to head home, glad to know his friend would be attending his meeting with John. Secretly, he thanked God for bringing John Watson into Sherlock's life.

:::

On that day, when he saw Sherlock, John immediately knew something was amiss. Sherlock looked as though his heart had been crushed, and John could almost physically feel the dull anger radiating from him. His hair was utterly out of control, there was something wild in his eyes, and he moved stiffly, like someone carrying a heavy burden. He obviously hadn't slept at all that night, and hadn't bothered changing out of his dress clothes. Yet, if John was surprised by his friend's appearance, he didn't let it show.

They walked along the shore towards Salty Swamp, John leading the way as Sherlock followed silently, looking grim with a defeated slump in his shoulders. Summer was almost over, but there were still small flowers flourishing on dusty stems in between pebbles. A ribbon of seaweed with debris mixed in drew a small, dark frontier halfway across the beach. The sun was pulling hazy smells out of algae and moss, and after its retreat, the sea had dotted the beach with water-filled holes. John knelt beside one of them.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment; he felt so crestfallen and angry he didn't have the heart to do anything. When he finally knelt beside John, he saw what he had been looking at: small snails clutching to a rock face. A few of them were moving terribly slowly while leaving behind a barely visible print, while others were perfectly motionless. In another small hole, miniature fishes were frolicking in warm water, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock and John's presence. But it was the snails that truly caught Sherlock's attention, and he decided to observe them more attentively.

After watching the mollusc's slow process, he decided he wanted to feel the cold, delicately chiselled shell under his fingertips. He leaned closer to pick one of the snails up, and it seemed as if it was tightening its grip on the rock. Sherlock still managed to dislodge it, but the strength of such a small creature that didn't seem more alive than a fragment of stone startled and impressed him.

When he looked up, Sherlock saw John advancing into the sea, so he kicked off his shoes and took his socks off to follow him. He explored the shapes and textures of marine plants with his fingers, just like John was doing. He saw red and pink seaweed, black satiny ribbons, and big supple blades riddled with holes. Some were raising their small arms towards the surface, almost begging to be touched, and other tried to lie down or submerge their roots into the dark depths of the sea. Some felt cold, smooth, and gorged with water, while others were rough and solidly anchored.

They spent two hours exploring the aquatic vegetation. By the time they were done, they were both shivering, and their soaked trousers clung to their legs. As Sherlock looked at his companion, he realized this long exploration had made him calmer. The small part of the water kingdom he had explored throughout the afternoon had managed to reconcile him a little bit with Sainte-Cécile and its townsfolk. John beckoned him over, and when Sherlock approached, he realized he was hiding something in each one of his strong hands.

"Pick one," John said.

Sherlock managed a small ghost of a smile before pointing to the right hand, but he quickly changed his mind and chose the left one instead. John extended and opened the hand his friend had chosen, revealing a pink and peach coloured starfish. In the other hand, he was holding a sea urchin, one of those creatures spiked with small thorns that people usually described as unattractive.

"It's only natural; beautiful for beautiful," John said, and he handed Sherlock the starfish.

Sherlock picked it up and examined it, contouring the starfish with the tip of a finger. He admired its pentagonal symmetry, and caressed its rough surface before finally handing it back to John and looking at the urchin.

"It looks like a marine porcupine. If you let me choose, I pick this one."

John looked moved when he smiled at Sherlock, and he handed him the urchin instead. He recovered the starfish and stroked it several times with his index finger before looking up at his friend and asking whether he wanted to talk about what was bothering him. Sherlock nodded, but suggested they got out of the water first.

They did, and John sat in the sand with his back resting against the biggest tree trunk he could find in the vicinity of the beach. On any other day, Sherlock would've sat beside him, pressing their sides together to share some very much needed warmth. However, Anderson and Donovan's words still echoed viciously in his mind, and he decided to sit down beside John's knee instead, facing but not touching him. Something about their position felt horribly wrong, but neither moved.

John extended a hand, offering comfort as he had been offered during their previous meetings, but Sherlock shook his head. He hated himself for doing so, but not as much as he hated himself for letting a snivelling rat fearing imbecile get to him. He craved the offered contact so much he felt something pulling at his insides. A dozen times, he was on the verge of grabbing John's hand, but an awfully annoying voice in his head held him back. A voice not unlike Jonathan Anderson's, and suddenly Sherlock hated himself even more, but the words sodomite and bestiality were hard ones to forget.

John shot him a confused look, but he didn't say anything as he let his hand fall onto his lap. He listened intently while Sherlock told him everything that had happened the night before, and every word that had been said about the two of them. He felt his skin growing unpleasantly warm in the process, but he didn't want to leave anything out; it was essential for John to know exactly what they were dealing with. He couldn't stop looking around nervously, remembering that Anderson and Donovan had spied on them during their last meeting, but despite the fact that he couldn't detect anyone else's presence, Sherlock couldn't fully relax.

"I know we're not doing anything wrong; people spend time together all the time, all over the village. I just hate that they know, and I hate that the subject will be discussed at length by people who have nothing to do with us," Sherlock concluded.

"They'll talk about it for a while, but as soon as something better happens you'll be left alone," John said, trying to be comforting with words since he couldn't be with touch.

"That's not what I care about."

"What's bothering you, then?"

It was easy for John to believe Sherlock when he said he didn't care about the villagers spreading rumours about him; he had already been feeding the discussions before his birth because of his unusual family. However, the physical distance he had put between them spoke volumes; something had to be wrong.

"It's you," Sherlock said, and the movement of the mask told him John had raised an eyebrow.

"No, it's not you, but now they'll talk about you even more. It was bad enough when they were merely calling you The Beast, but now they're comparing you—"

He was interrupted by giggles. John must've lost his mind, he was actually giggling. When Sherlock looked at him with wide and curious eyes, the giggles turned into genuine laughter, and Sherlock didn't know what to say. He just stared at his friend with his mouth agape, an unasked question on his lips.

"Sherlock, are you worried about my _reputation_?" John asked between fits of uncontrollable laughter.

Sherlock thought about it, and came to the conclusion that yes, he was. Suddenly it all seemed absurd, and he started laughing too. At first, it was tentative and awkward, but very soon his whole body was shaking with mirth. With every jump of his shoulders, he could feel the hatred, disgust, worry, and every other bad feeling that had lodged itself in his stomach melt and disappear.

"Is it why you're sitting all the way over there?" John asked, still laughing.

Sherlock nodded, and John patted the ground beside him. He didn't need to repeat the invitation twice; Sherlock crawled until he was pressed against his friend's right side, the tree trunk large enough for both their backs to be supported comfortably. He squirmed until he was at ease, and almost sighed with relief, once again wondering what it was about John that made him so calm.

"You _do_ know you're an idiot, right? A tall, incredible, curly idiot," John said as Sherlock settled beside him.

"I'm not curly," was the only response Sherlock came up with.

He shifted down until he could lay his head on John's shoulder, and if Anderson or Donovan had decided to wander on that beach, they would've run back to the village with tales of hands held, words whispered, and dark curls stroked.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Just a tiny chapter today, but I needed this to happen. The next chapter is…happier, and it would have been weird to post the two parts together. I wish you all a wonderful week, and I'll see again next Monday.

* * *

><p>On the first Sunday following Moran and Moriarty's picnic, the dinner at the Lestrades' house felt more like a war council than a lovely meal shared between friends. For the first time, Sarah Sawyer had been asked to join them, and she had suggested inviting her friend, Molly Hooper. Sarah was a romantic at heart, and even when faced with the evidence of Sherlock's indifference towards her friend, she never stopped hoping for a happy ending.<p>

Sherlock was quieter than usual, only speaking when he was asked a direct question, but even then he seemed to be making a study in how little syllables he could use. He looked uncommonly anxious, almost buzzing with restlessness, and Gregory had never seen him so fidgety. Not for the first time, he wished he had the ability to read his friend's mind, to know what had happened to make him look like he was constantly making an effort not to choke on something painful.

A lot of the gossip in Sainte-Cécile was exchanged in the store, so the Lestrades were the best informed on what was being said about Sherlock's friendship with John Watson. Most of the villagers thought it was strange, but were not surprised that Sherlock had gotten himself in a strange situation. Other townsfolk thought Sherlock had to be persuaded to stop seeing The Beast, while an even smaller portion called him a sinner or a faggot. As for Sherlock's small support group gathered around the Lestrades' table, they had believed Gregory when he had told them John Watson was a very nice, albeit somewhat antisocial man. Not unlike a certain dark haired someone they knew and had grown to appreciate.

Once the meal was over and Mr. Lestrade was offering brandy glasses, Sherlock got up and whispered something into Gregory's ear. When Gregory seemed to hesitate, Sherlock grabbed his forearm and dragged him outside to the firewood cord on which he leaned. Then, he began to talk, explaining the reason behind his distress during dinner.

Sherlock told his friend that, the day before, he had gotten into his small boat and had rowed to West Birches Bay. There had been no scarf tied to the usual tree, he had known that before going, but he had crossed the Watsons' grounds nonetheless, and had walked on the sand path to Lover's Island.

"I don't know what got into me, I woke up frustrated that he's always the one deciding when we meet. Because of his horrible sister, to whom I wish a terrible fate. I wanted to see John, and although his sister doesn't scare me, I couldn't walk to their manor and knock on the door."

"Please Sherlock, tell me you didn't do anything stupid."

"I did _not_!" he said in an outraged tone, and Gregory raised an eyebrow.

"I may have," he added as an afterthought.

Gregory sighed and rolled his eyes, but a small smile formed on his lips nonetheless, and he gestured for his friend to hadn't found John on Lover's Island, but he had decided to walk around and check on the eider's nests. He had been curious to see if any of the females they had fed had managed to regain enough strength to leave their nests and join the others. He hadn't been that surprised to find all the nests empty; John had obviously known what he had been doing, and had done it well.

Then, Sherlock had gone to John's hut on the island, but had found it empty. However, something on the table had caught his eye and sent cold shivers running down his spine. John's mask. John had been there, very close and unmasked. Sherlock had gotten out of the hut and had called for his friend, but there had been no answer, save for a few ducks and seagulls cries.

At that point, Sherlock had known he ought to have left. The sea had started rising while he had been inspecting the eiders' nests, the sky had darkened dangerously, and the east wind had started blowing furiously. However, the image of his friend – so close and without his usual leather protection – had been the only thought on Sherlock's mind, and he hadn't been able to muster the strength to leave.

"You see, about a hundred times I wanted to ask him to take it off," Sherlock told Gregory.

"Why didn't you? You're usually not the shy type."

"Something akin to modesty, I suppose. I came to the conclusion that, for him, it's a very… intimate gesture. Also, I can't help but hope it will be the tenth treasure."

"Well, did you see his face?"

Gregory didn't want to rush Sherlock, but the sun was setting fast, and he suspected a worried Sarah and an eager Molly would soon start looking for them if they didn't return to the house. After that, who knew when the opportunity to be alone with Sherlock would arise again?

Looking for his friend, Sherlock had walked along the shore, his senses tingling with awareness. He had continued to call out John's name, but the waves had been strong, and the sea had swallowed his cries. He had looked in the tall bushes, among the trees, the groves, the reefs, and even further down at the foot of the cliffs. That's where he had found an old rowboat tied to a rocky ridge against which it had been knocking violently, pushed around by the waves. It's also where he had heard grunts and moans.

He had known at once what had been happening; he had seen enough animals doing it to recognize the noises of copulation. He had only approached because he had feared the act might not have been consensual for one of the participants. However, as soon as he had heard them talking and had recognized the voices, he had been convinced that both Jonathan Anderson and Sally Donovan had been consenting.

"The hypocrites!" Gregory cried when Sherlock reached that part of his story. "The awful hypocrites!"

"Indeed. I don't think I need to say I didn't linger to hear more."

Sherlock had turned to get away, but unfortunately had walked into a branch, and hadn't managed to stifle an exclamation of surprise when it had whipped his cheek. Knowing he had been loud enough to be heard, he had hidden behind a large tree trunk just in time to see Anderson and Donovan getting up, adjusting their clothes, and looking around with anxious eyes.

"Donovan seemed the most worried of the two, she was obviously panicked by the idea they might've been seen," Sherlock told Gregory, the unpleasant images still vivid in his mind.

"Anderson seemed more worried by the change in weather; it had started to rain by then, and he told her they had to leave right away before it got worse. She said it was dangerous, and they should wait for the upcoming storm to pass before returning home. That's when he told her to shut up or he would leave her there."

"Charming," Gregory commented, barely containing his excitement.

He couldn't understand why his friend wasn't gloating; he certainly was. They now had something to dangle over Anderson and Donovan's heads if they ever decided to interfere with his friend's life again.

"Water had gotten into their boat while they had been… busy, but they had nothing to bale out with. He told her to get in or stay, and she finally decided to leave with him. Anderson was rowing as fast as he could, but the wind kept carrying them off course."

"What did you do?" Gregory asked.

"What could I do? My own boat was in West Birches Bay. Anderson, fool that he is, stood up brandishing an oar, and probably started crying out for help, but I couldn't hear over the sound of the waves. Then, I heard branches creaking, and before I knew what was happening, someone had gotten into the water."

John. His strong arms hitting the water while his head had disappeared and resurfaced among the waves. Sherlock had seen Donovan, then Anderson disappearing under water, but they had soon resurfaced, thanks to John maintaining them afloat. Sherlock had lost track of them, but he assumed they had ended up in East Birches Bay.

Sherlock had gone back to the hut, but hadn't entered; he had felt like an intruder. He had waited under the rain while thinking about what had just happened. John had gone to his island, and thinking he had been alone, had taken off his mask. Then, he had discovered Sherlock's presence, and had hidden away in order not to scare him, not to reveal his face. He had probably hesitated before rescuing the couple in distress. Even if he was an exceptionally good swimmer, the venture had been dangerous, and after what Sherlock had told him about Anderson and Donovan, he probably wasn't terribly fond of them. Also, he must have been mortified by the thought of them seeing his face.

Nonetheless, he had dived.

The rain had eventually stopped and the wind had died down, but the sky had kept its stony colour, and the clouds had remained heavy looking. Sherlock felt ashamed that he had come, ashamed that he had forced John to hide. Eventually, he had felt calm enough to walk without collapsing, but before crossing to the other shore, he had found a big branch, and had carefully traced a few letters in the sand.

_S – O – R – R - Y_

Hoping the sea would spare his message, he had promised himself never again to seek a meeting without John's agreement, and he had returned home where he had spent the rest of the day sitting on the sofa while hugging his knees to his chest. Mrs. Hudson had squeezed his shoulder a few times, offering silent comfort, but he had remained silent.

Sherlock was watching Gregory, fidgeting while he waited for his reaction. He desperately needed someone else's opinion; he was driving himself crazy thinking about what had happened on the island. The skull had been no help at all – he clearly was on John's side – and he hoped Gregory would be able to shine some light on the whole situation, or at least offer a different perspective.

"So?" Sherlock asked impatiently, "How badly did I break The Friendship Code?"

Gregory sighed and ran a hand through his short hair, messing it up in the process.

"You do know The Friendship Code is more figurative than literal, right? And even if there were such a book with rules about friendship, I don't think it would include anything about angering war veterans wearing masks."

Sherlock sighed, and resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at Gregory's unhelpfulness. Instead, he decided to ask his question differently.

"Would you be angry if you were in John's situation?"

Gregory thought for a moment; he wanted to give a sincere answer, so he immerses himself in the situation, and tried to imagine what John must have felt.

"From what you've told me, he seems to like you a lot. Sure, you did something you're not proud of, but you recognized it and apologized. This treasure hunt of yours isn't even over yet, I think you'll be fine. Just give him some time, it's only been a couple of days."

As Gregory had predicted, Sarah and Molly went looking for them, and they inquired about what had kept them away from the house for so long. Gregory assured them they would return soon, and in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, he threw one arm around Sherlock's shoulder.


	12. Chapter 12

For weeks, there was no scarf tied to the tree in West Birches Bay, and every day that passed without a signal left Sherlock feeling heavier. He still felt horrible about his unwanted visit to Lover's Island, but he had apologized, and he hadn't expected John to stay angry for so long. He was afraid his message had been destroyed, and while he could somewhat ignore his gloomy thoughts during the day when he had other things to occupy his mind, it was different at night. He kept telling himself there had been longer breaks between meetings before, that it hadn't been _that_ long, and that John's prolonged silence could be explained by many things other than anger. Nonetheless, he remained terribly afraid John hadn't seen his message and was now convinced Sherlock didn't care about him.

During that time, no one saw Harriet Watson in the village. Heavy packages continued to arrive for her, and a servant made frequent trips to the store with a list, which suggested she wasn't traveling. However, Gregory noticed the lists weren't written in the same handwriting as usual, and he discussed it with Sherlock, who he knew was driving himself crazy thinking about John.

"Maybe she's sick, and John has to stay at her bedside to take care of her. He is a doctor after all. That may explain why he can't see you yet."

The possibility made Sherlock feel slightly better.

"Plus, he's not your only friend. Do you want to play chess?" Gregory asked.

Sherlock looked at him and frowned; he couldn't fully comprehend what he was saying about John not being his only friend. Obviously, Gregory and he were also good friends, but in Sherlock's eyes John was unique, and their friendship couldn't be compared to the one he shared with Gregory. He enjoyed the time they spent together and it was nice to have a chess partner who never got tired of loosing, but John was a marvel and a mystery. Spending time with him was better than his experiments, better than chess, better than gruesome stories about chopped limbs, better than deducing the personal history of the villagers, better than walks in the cemetery, and better than being right all the time.

Sherlock knew Gregory enjoyed the time he spent with him, but he was also aware that when they weren't together, he had a lot of things to occupy his mind. He had Sarah and the upcoming wedding, his family, his morning job at the sawmill, and the afternoons he spent in the store. It was different with John, who had organized a treasure hunt with Sherlock in mind, who had thought of him and brought a second chair to his hut, and who had seen a skull and picked it up for him. Sherlock liked being cared for by someone who didn't have the duty to do so, and most of all, he liked knowing John thought of him even when they weren't together, just like he thought of John when they were apart.

Autumn had already settled when John finally tied his red scarf to the usual spruce branch. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and Sherlock decided to wear his long grey coat with a scarf and a pair of black leather gloves. It wasn't that cold, but his last meetings with John had gone on long after the sun had set, and if today was no exception, he didn't want the cold to distract him. He was more nervous than he wanted to let on; it had been over a month since he had invaded John's privacy on Lover's Island, and as much as he wanted to believe John wasn't angry with him, he still doubted.

As soon as Sherlock's small boat hit the shore, John pushed it back towards the open sea and got in. He insisted on taking Sherlock's place in the rower's seat, and when they were both sitting comfortably, he leaned towards him.

"I saw your message," he said simply, but he was smiling, and that meant more than any words he could have said.

Again, Sherlock noticed how beautiful John's eyes were, especially now, as they were completely devoid of the resentment he had feared to see in them. They were remarkably blue, as blue as the sea, and Sherlock could detect a hint of tiredness in them. Perhaps Gregory had been right in suggesting John had had to take care of his sick sister. They both remained silent until John stopped rowing, and by then they were so far they couldn't see the shore anymore.

"I can't promise anything, we may have to come back," John said.

Nothing happened indeed, but the wind was soft, and the sea was shivering under invisible caresses. Sherlock was glad John had read his message and wasn't angry, that he had once again forgiven his rash behaviour, and had signalled for them to meet again. Sherlock wasn't asking for anything else. Some part of him was scared that after the tenth meeting, John would announce that the game – and their friendship – was over, so he didn't object to a repeat.

Two hours later, as John was picking up the oars and getting ready to bring them back to shore, a dolphin cut through the water. Then another, and another after that. A second clan appeared not too far from them and John applauded, his smile so wide his whole body seemed transformed. The dolphins executed a few reconnaissance jumps before beginning their extraordinary ballet. At first, they formed two distinct groups that swam away from each other. Then, as though driven by a secret signal, they charged straight ahead, and at the last moment, when a collision seemed inevitable, they jumped in the air. They did it again and again, much to the two men's delight.

Sherlock had never seen dolphins dancing like that. He admired their prowess as his heart pounded in his chest; he felt so far away from Sainte-Cécile, it felt like being in a completely different world. Far from Anderson and Donovan, from scandal, and rumour-mongers. He eventually lost track of time; he often did when he was out with John. After a while, the dolphins swam away, and John picked up the oars to bring them back to shore.

"I can row," Sherlock offered, "it will give your arms a rest."

"Don't be ridiculous, you'll have to row back all the way to Sailboat Bay later, I don't want you to get tired already."

"If this is an attempt to regain some virility you think you lost after you sobbed on my shoulder, don't bother," Sherlock said.

He was in a teasing mood, one of the effects of John's genuine smiles. It made Sherlock feel as if his friend had wrapped his red scarf around his heart, which was ridiculous; feelings had nothing to do with the organ pumping blood throughout the body. Like John had wrapped his scarf around his brain, then. That was a much more fitting image.

"I was _not_ sobbing!" John said in his best imitation of Sherlock's offended tone.

"I assure you, I do not find you less masculine than I did before then."

"Stop it, or I'm pushing you into the water."

They smiled at each other, and once again Sherlock felt the urge to touch, he longed for the relaxing proximity they had shared during their previous meetings. He suspected John felt the same, he had, after all, initiated some of their physical contacts in the past. Once they hit the shore of West Birches Bay, Sherlock asked if John needed to go back to his sick sister, and when he said he had all the time in the world, Sherlock felt a bit warmer.

John led him into the forest and up to Enraged Cape, where he sat on the same rock from which they had watched the moon back in April. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and his hands were flat on the rock beside him for support; a very open and vulnerable position. Sherlock took it as an invitation, and he lay down beside his friend with his head resting in his lap. Almost instantly, John's fingers were in his hair, and Sherlock let out a happy sigh.

"How did you know about my sister's illness?" John asked as his fingertips rubbed small circles on Sherlock's scalp.

"I wish I could take credit, but Gregory suspected it when he stopped seeing her in the store. Apparently, it's not that unusual for her to send a servant, but recently it stopped being her handwriting on the lists they brought."

"That friend of yours has good deducing skills, you should keep an eye on him or he will steal your glory," John said playfully.

"She's fine now," he added as an afterthought.

Sherlock nodded, partly because he didn't care enough about John's sister to respond, but also because most of his attention was directed to John's strong hand in his hair; a hand that had been trained to save lives before being trained to kill. Right now, it was giving life to a thousand butterflies in Sherlock's stomach, and killing his ability to think properly. Involuntarily, his eyes closed and he made a humming contented sound low in his throat, which made John chuckle.

"You're just a giant kitten."

Again, Sherlock remained silent. He felt quite like a kitten with John's fingers entwined in his curls. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning shades of orange and pink while the air was getting colder. Sherlock was glad he had chosen to wear his coat and gloves. After a few minutes of pleasant silence, John spoke.

"Your friend Gregory is getting married next week, isn't he?"

"He is. His fiancée wanted an autumn wedding."

"It's risky; only one day of strong winds and the colours will be gone from the trees."

John was thoroughly enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's curls between his fingers. His hair looked so wild and untamed, it was quite a surprise to find out how soft it actually was. He carefully let one thumb drop lower, and he gently brushed Sherlock's neck. The resulting sound was incredibly satisfying, and he couldn't resist doing it again. And again.

"Come with me," Sherlock said as soon as the idea hit him.

Gregory had told him people often brought someone they liked with them at weddings, and he liked John a lot. In fact, thinking about attending the wedding with John instantly made the whole thing seem far less boring. Having someone to look at during the ceremony, sharing a smile when the priest got too emotional, and watching the party from afar while whispering what he could deduce about the guests' lives; those were just a few things that would make the wedding far more interesting.

"Where?"

"The wedding. Come with me."

John laughed, but there was nothing joyful about it.

"Have you lost your mind? I can't go with you!"

Sherlock turned his head slightly to look up at him.

"I don't care about what people say, and I know Gregory would be happy to meet you."

"Sherlock, look at you and look at me…."

"I could wear a mask too."

He could picture it clearly in his mind; himself in his brand new black suit and wearing a black leather mask, and John in his usual brown mask with a dark blue suit that would accentuate his eyes. The image was striking, beautiful, and a little moving. Sherlock felt a shiver running down his spine, and he snuggled closer to John's abdomen.

Again, John let out a very sad chuckle.

"Can you imagine how unfair that would be to the bride? Every eye would be on us, every conversation would be about us."

Sherlock knew and he didn't care, but he didn't press the subject. Instead, he butted his head against John's hand, hoping he would resume the stroking that had ceased the moment he had suggested they attended the wedding together.

"Besides," John continued, "I'm sure there is a nice lady you could bring."

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.

"Young ladies are tedious."

Even if he had been interested in bringing someone other than John, he wasn't a very recommendable frequentation with all the rumours about him still being spread around the village. Molly Hooper was probably the only person who would've accepted an invitation, but he didn't doubt spending a full evening with her would be mind-numbingly boring.

The moon was high now, and the unclouded sky was freckled with bright stars. Sherlock didn't know how long they had been there; it felt as though his brain function had been transferred to John's fingers. He closed his eyes again and sighed, hardly believing how good he felt.

"I don't think I can move," he said after a while, and he could feel John's laugh through his fingers.

"I don't think I want to," John replied.

"I hope you weren't planning on making this the ninth treasure. You have used the moon once, using it again would be cheating."

"Making the rules now, are you?" He traced one of his fingers behind Sherlock's right ear. "This is not the ninth treasure. Our next meeting will be on a day when the sky will overflow."

Sherlock's only response was to smile and close his eyes.

When John stopped stroking Sherlock's hair, the sun was rising again, chasing after the moon.

:::

Gregory Lestrade got married before the red signal appeared again. Sarah was lucky; the trees were still wearing their colourful leaves, and the weather was very pleasant. The church was full, the benches packed, and Sherlock was finally grateful for his best man role that prevented him from having to sit that closely to anyone. Gregory looked very handsome in his brand new black suit, and so did Sherlock who managed to look graceful despite the awkwardness he felt inside.

To busy his mind, Sherlock surveyed the crowd. Aunt Martha was wearing a ridiculously large hat with her purple dress, and was sitting next to Mrs. Turner who looked a lot plainer in her sober brown dress. Not too far away were Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty. When Moran noticed Sherlock looking at them, he waved and elbowed his husband who looked at Sherlock and winked. _That was strange_, Sherlock thought before looking at someone else. Sally Donovan was wearing a surly expression; probably because she had gained four pounds since the last time he had seen her.

He was about to start deducing what was causing the red spots on the youngest Lestrade's neck, but the organist began playing and the door opened, flooding the church with sunlight. Sarah made her entrance as everyone stood up and turned around to look at her. Her father held her arm to guide her down the aisle, and Molly Hooper followed, holding the dress' trail. The ceremony was as boring as expected, but Sherlock entertained himself by trying to deduce who was going to cry, and when. By the time the vows were exchanged, almost all the women were in tears, and the game lost its appeal. Not soon enough, they were out of the church and heading to the Lestrades' house for the festivities.

Mrs. Lestrade had outdone herself. Their yard was lit with what looked like hundreds of gas lights, and the tables were overflowing with heaps of food. By the time the reception was in full swing, Sherlock was bored out of his mind, and was starting to wish he had brought his skull with him. He had just found a nice corner from which he could observe without being bothered when Moran and Moriarty made a beeline towards him.

Not such a secluded corner, after all.

"Sherlock! What a nice suit! Do I recognize Mrs. Westwood's style?" Moriarty exclaimed.

"You do. This was a very lucrative wedding for her."

"Good! That's very good!" Moriarty replied before abruptly changing the subject.

"How is that Watson man doing?"

Sherlock frowned, different responses running through his mind while he analyzed them, trying to decide which one would get him out of this conversation the fastest. He settled on sarcasm, a very low form of wit, but a usually effective one.

"The usual: burning villages, boiling children, cackling evilly."

Apparently that was not the right answer to give; the two men burst out laughing, and a few heads turned in their direction to eye them suspiciously before resuming their own conversations.

"You know," Moran said, "Jim and I used to do just that."

Sherlock was confused. "Burn villages, boil children and cackle evilly?"

More laughter from the married men, followed by more bewilderment from Sherlock.

"Of course not!" Moran said, and there were still traces of laughter in his deep voice.

"We used to sneak around in the woods, run away from our parents, hide from people, and share kisses in forests," he added before tenderly looking at his husband, who giggled.

"Yes, we shared _kisses_," Jim said, and from his tone, it was obvious a lot more than kisses had been shared while they had been gallivanting together.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide; this conversation was certainly not taking the intended direction. He was not at all interested in being told the tale of how Aunt Martha's two tenants had met and fallen in love, especially if parallels were being drawn between their love story and his friendship with John. Also, he didn't want them spreading more rumours, especially if _kissing_ was involved.

Moriarty must have known what was going on in Sherlock's mind, because he shook his head.

"You're mistaken, we are not trying to gather juicy details. Well, we wouldn't object to juicy details, but we would never think about spreading them around town."

"Of course not!" his husband added. "But we were in a similar situation once, and we would've appreciated some understanding or offers of kind ears. So that's what we're offering."

"You're offering ears?"

"Kind ones," Moriarty replied, "and tea. If you and Watson ever want to visit us for tea, or if you need someone to talk with, please know our door will always be open for you."

The confusion was mostly gone – at least now he knew what they were talking about – but Sherlock was still surprised by the fact that neither one of his interlocutors seemed to believe John was the devil's son or a vicious beast.

"Thank you…." Sherlock answered, unsure of what one was suppose to say in those situations.

"We've heard all about you from Mrs. Hudson; you seem like a reasonable man, and if you chose him as your friend, we know he must be a good man," Moriarty said before being distracted by the small group of musicians who had started playing a waltz.

"Oh Sebastian! I love this song! Let's dance!"

He then ran off to the improvised dance floor, leaving his husband behind.

"Look at him!" Moran said fondly as his husband gestured enthusiastically for him to come, "How could I resist that?"

He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Seriously Sherlock, you're welcome to our house anytime. So is Watson."

With one last look, Moran was gone, and Sherlock watched as he grabbed Moriarty's hand, kissed his palm, and led him to the center of the dance floor. Sherlock watched for a while as they spun and twirled around, and before he realized it, his eyes were searching the crowd for someone who he knew wasn't there. Instead, he saw Gregory approaching, red faced and grinning like a loon, more than a little tipsy.

On the dance floor, Moran and Moriarty were swaying cheek to cheek. Moriarty pressed his mouth to Moran's ear and whispered, "Do you think he will come?"

"No. But I think it matters that we offered."


	13. Chapter 13

Just like John had said, it was profusely raining the next time he tied his scarf to the branch in West Birches Bay. According to Gregory, Harry Watson had recovered from her illness, had resumed going to the store, and was traveling again. However, she still wasn't mingling with the other villagers, so it was reasonable to assume she hadn't heard of her brother's escapades with Sherlock.

It was early November, winter was approaching but was not quite there yet, and it was cold outside. Sherlock had put on his long coat, but he knew it would be drenched before he reached the rendezvous point. He rowed as fast as he could, often jerking his head violently in order to get his soaking wet hair out of his eyes.

As he was pulling his boat out of the water and onto the shore that had already been hardened by the cold, John emerged from the forest where he had tried to shelter himself and the large bag he was carrying from the rain. He guided Sherlock further away to a beach surrounded by rocks, and when they reached a rocky overhang, John dropped to his knees and crawled through the entrance. Sherlock followed, and he discovered the rock was hollowed out, forming an antechamber with a low ceiling leading to a real cave from which they could see a curtain of rain, the shore, and the sea.

Sounds were bouncing off the rock walls, amplified by a resounding effect so powerful the rain seemed deafening. It sounded as is rain was falling inside the cave. No, not quite, it was louder than that. It seemed as though rain was falling all over the Earth, and the echo of that magnificent downpour was impregnating the rock surrounding them.

"I call it the Fairy Cave," John said as he struck a match and lit up the many candles he had fixed to the walls.

Wax had fallen onto the rock face and the ground, forming hard puddles; a clear indication that John came here often. The candle flames drew moving shadows on the walls, making the cave seem haunted. Sherlock flashed a big smile at his companion; the cave was beautiful, the atmosphere intimate, and they were sheltered from the rain, but still able to enjoy it. John opened the bag he had brought, and took out a pile of dry clothes.

"We will catch our deaths if we stay in our wet clothes, I brought you the same ones I had put in your room when you spent the night in the manor."

Sherlock thanked him, and he grabbed the offered clothes. In an act of modesty, he turned around and changed slowly, taking his time in order to allow John the privacy he needed to put on his own clothes. Knowing John was standing so close while _undressing_ made him a bit dizzy, but he pushed the thought away and concentrated on buttoning his dry shirt. Once they were both dry and comfortable, they sat in the sand with their backs against the rock wall.

"How was the wedding?" John asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

"Tedious," was his first response, but then he remembered the strange conversation he had had with Moran and Moriarty.

"We were issued an invitation for tea," he added.

John shot him a curious glance, and Sherlock didn't need him to talk to know he had questions.

"Aunt Martha's tenants, Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty—you've probably heard of them; your sister hired them when your manor was built. Well, they came to me at the reception, and we had the strangest talk."

"I've never met them, of course, but I've heard of them. What did you talk about?"

"At first I thought they wanted to discuss the rumours, but they only wanted to offer tea. Oh, and kind ears, if we ever need some people to talk to."

John looked as confused as Sherlock had been then, and it was reassuring to see he wasn't the only one puzzled by the situation.

"But aren't they afraid of The Beast?" John asked.

"I asked. Not in these words, of course, but they laughed so hard I feared they would break something. It was unsettling."

"That's… unusual."

"Quite. They told me I was a reasonable man, and me choosing you as a friend proves you're a good person."

John inched closer, obviously moved. "And then?"

"Then a waltz started playing, and Moriarty _had_ to dance, so they did," Sherlock replied.

He could still see the fondness in Moran's eyes as he had watched his husband's eagerness. It made him wonder what his own face looked like when he looked at John, whether it was obvious he deeply cared for his friend. It also made him want to see whether John looked different when they weren't together, to see whether his eyes or his smiles were the same, or if he had a special way of looking just at him.

"Why would they invite us? Do you think they seek more information and the attention it would give them if they spread it around town?" John asked.

"I thought about it at first, but they wouldn't. Aunt Martha would evict them straight away."

They fell silent for a moment, and Sherlock recalled the beginning of the conversation with the married men, the thing they had said that had made him slightly uncomfortable.

"They said they were like us when they were younger, hiding from family and wandering around the woods." He left out the part about the kissing, in order not to embarrass his friend.

For a moment, John remained silent while he pondered about what Sherlock had said. Other than his friend, no one had ever tried initiating contact with him since the war, and it felt bizarre, yet not unpleasant.

"How long have they been married?" he asked.

"From the look and state of their wedding rings, considering they both do heavy work outdoors, I'd say around fifteen years. But the way they act together is most perplexing; they look like two people just back from their honeymoon."

"That's sweet," John said, "I think I would have enjoyed being married."

"Not me!" Sherlock said, so quickly he didn't know whether he was talking about his own theoretical wedding or John's.

"Why not?" John asked, and Sherlock could see the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth; he was obviously amused by the conversation.

"It's boring and predictable. If I were to marry, I am quite certain my brain would slowly rot and die."

"Plus, you would be the worst husband in the world," John teased, and Sherlock elbowed him playfully.

They fell in a companionable silence, the rain was still falling violently, but the stone walls were sheltering them from water and wind. Once again, Sherlock felt a pang in his stomach when he thought that this was the penultimate meeting, he couldn't bear to think that it could all be about to end. However, he didn't ask, he decided to enjoy John's presence, and deal with whatever he had planned for the tenth meeting once he was faced with it. He was the one to break the silence after a while.

"I like your treasures."

"You're not bored?"

"I'm never bored with you."

It was true. Something that had been buzzing in him for as long as he could remember was quieted in John's presence. He had spent most of his life wishing he were somewhere else, doing something else, but he never got that feeling when he was with John. However, when he wasn't with him, most of the time he wished he were, and he could physically feel John's absence, just like he could feel hunger or tiredness.

Something had shifted along the way. At first, he had wanted to meet him because of the mask and the mystery surrounding him. Then, there had been the thrill of their first rushed meeting among the trees; his heart had pounded with excitement, and his blood had rushed faster through his veins when he had spotted John. Then, there had been the pieces of paper slid under a door in his big forbidden manor, and on that night, he had caught a glimpse of a person beneath the mystery.

Usually, that's when he would've lost interest, but the contrast between the person he had met and the stories told by the villagers had intrigued him, so when the red scarf had been raised, he had come running. In the following months, he had discovered the kindness, resentment, curiosity, sadness, sense of humour, anger, playfulness, sweet eyes, tender hands….

Was it normal? It's not something he had ever felt before. It wasn't like the familiar affection and warm love he felt for Mrs. Hudson, nor was it like the amiable companionship he shared with Gregory, and it certainly had nothing to do with the flickering interest Molly had sparked in him many years ago. What he felt for John was overwhelming and exciting, as though someone had lit a fire in him. It was exciting, breathtaking, surprising, and comforting. It made him feel…exceptionally good. Was it something friends often felt for each other?

"What's happening in that great head of yours?" John asked, looking extremely pleased with himself, as if he had heard Sherlock's train of thoughts.

Sherlock smiled back, but didn't share his thoughts.

"Trying to deduce why my human pillow is sitting so far away," he said.

John's smile turned into a soft laugh. "I was the pillow last time, it's my turn to be comfortable. Spread your legs."

Sherlock ignored the warmth creeping up his neck, and did as he was told. John sat between his legs, and shifted down until he could lay his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Unsure of what to do with his hands, Sherlock put them on his own knees, but John laced their fingers together and guided the other man's arms around his torso.

"I don't know enough about you," Sherlock said after a while, "I wish I could spy on you when we're not together."

"That's not disturbing at all," John said as he stroked Sherlock's thumb with his own. "Why would you spy on me when you can ask me anything?"

"I want to see what you do when we're not together, I want to see if you're different."

"I can assure you there is nothing interesting to see. I read and I drink tea. Too much tea, actually."

Sherlock tried to picture it: John wearing his knitted sweaters or cardigans, walking around the manor, sitting in an armchair with a book and a cup of tea. The image was too vague; he needed more data.

"What do you read? Medical texts?"

"Very rarely, I mostly read fiction."

"I have never read fiction, I don't see the appeal of reading about things that don't exist."

John laughed and Sherlock felt it deep within his chest before it spread to the rest of his body.

"You don't know what you're talking about. This morning I met a king, and yesterday someone imprisoned by mistake in a cursed jail. Last week, I heard sirens sing, and I met a man willing to fight with windmills. I watched bloody battles, terrifying duels, and incredible massacres. I also saw goblins running in a forest, and I spied on lovers ready to die for each other. I know there is a far away sea haunted by a gigantic whale that munched on a man's heart, but I also know that I know nothing at all. I know that one life won't be enough to discover all the treasures – other than rain, dolphins, sea snails, herons, cormorants, eiders, stars, and moon – my heart and mind have the power to hold."

Sherlock shivered, and he felt goose bumps invading his arms. He wanted to see it too; he wanted a glimpse of the universes John was describing.

"Show me," Sherlock whispered.

"Maybe," John answered, and Sherlock barely heard him over the sound of the rain that was still falling.

John stayed silent for a long time before finally asking a question that had been tormenting him ever since Sherlock had mentioned his violin lessons.

"Would you play the violin for me?"

Sherlock rarely played his instrument in front of others, and when he did, it was only for his aunt. However, as soon as John asked, Sherlock knew he not only didn't mind, but also wanted to.

"Of course I will," he answered.

"Can you bring it to our next meeting?" John asked again, and Sherlock nodded solemnly.

Even though John couldn't see him, he felt the movement against the side of his head and he smiled. He had planned the tenth treasure very carefully, and he was quite proud of what he had come up with. If Sherlock got bored once the game was over, at least he would have heard him play once. And if Sherlock was interested in pursuing their friendship beyond the tenth meeting… John preferred not to think about the possibility; he didn't want to get his hopes up.

Eventually, day turned into night, and John had to go back before his sister noticed his prolonged absence. There was something solemn about their goodbye; both of them knew the treasure hunt was almost over, and both were unsure of what would happen with their friendship once the game was over.

On that night, when Sherlock went to bed, he didn't change into his usual nightshirt. Instead, he kept the shirt John had brought him, the shirt he had been wearing that night in the manor, the shirt that still smelled intensely of John and of the Fairy Cave. His dreams were filled with John, and all through the night there was a gentle smile on his sleeping face.


	14. Chapter 14

I'm sorry for the lack of response to everyone who left comments; I had a hectic week, but I still want you to know how much I appreciated your kind words. You are all amazing, thank you so much for reading and for being so patient with me while I took my sweet time going through the steps of John's treasure hunt. Today, you'll see what John's last treasure is, and I hope you'll like it. I wish you could see how beautiful it was outside when I wrote that scene; there was that huge snow storm (yes, I wrote it several months ago), everything was white, and I couldn't even see the street in front of my apartment.

For those who are interested in this kind of things, Sherlock is playing Vivaldi's "Winter" on his violin.

* * *

><p>In December, Martha went to Rimouski to visit her late husband's sister with whom she had always stayed in touch through letters. When she learned her dear friend was ill with tuberculosis and would probably die soon, she decided to visit her one last time, leaving Sherlock alone with the skull – which he had taken out of his bedroom – for about a week. He made good use of that time, and he played the violin almost constantly. He couldn't decide what he would play for John, and the skull offered no pertinent input. He decided to practice everything he knew and liked, hoping that inspiration would come at the right moment.<p>

On the first big storm of December, he saw John's red scarf floating in a sea of snowflakes. He ran back home to grab his violin case, but took his time walking to the rendezvous point; there was a possibility this would be their last meeting, and he wanted to make it last. When he arrived in West Birches Bay, John was waiting for him under a tree. The storm had dampened his mask, and because of the cold, it wasn't fitting as well as it usually did, but Sherlock hardly noticed it anymore.

At first, Sherlock thought he was being led to Lover's Island, but John continued towards the manor instead. It had been dark the last time Sherlock had been around the forbidden residence, so he took the time closely to look at his surroundings as he followed John. Gregory had told him Harry Watson had left for Québec City the day before, so Sherlock could relax knowing no one was hiding behind a tree, and waiting to shoot him.

Once inside the manor, Sherlock looked around nervously while John whispered something to the servant who had greeted them at the door. When the man was gone, John turned to face Sherlock, and without a word, he smoothed both his hands down Sherlock's lapels before undoing the three buttons of the long grey coat.

"My sister is away, we will be left alone," John whispered. "The servants are faithful to me; they won't tell her you were here."

John untied Sherlock's scarf, brushing two fingers under his chin as he did so, before removing his own winter clothes, and hanging them on the coat rack. Once Sherlock had done the same, John led them through a corridor, then another, and another. At one point, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the room where he had spent the night, but they turned left, and the familiar sight was gone. They crossed two servants who bowed their heads and smiled at them, they didn't seem surprised to see Sherlock; in fact, they seemed quite happy.

When they reached their destination, John pushed a heavy door and led Sherlock into the biggest room he had ever seen in a home. One of the walls was covered in an array of weapons of all kinds. Mostly guns, but also knives, swords, bows, and spears. One didn't have to be a deducing genius to figure out it was Harry Watson's collection. Two other walls were decorated with trophies; there were stuffed heads of stags, bighorn sheep, and antelopes, and skins from lynxes and bears. In the center of the room was the formidable head of the wild boar Harry had famously killed when she had been a girl, and on a small table was the red fox she had stuffed herself.

John noticed Sherlock's uneasiness, and he grabbed his hand.

"Come," he said before leading him Sherlock a door at the end of the hunting room.

John opened it, revealing an alcove. The walls were almost entirely covered in bookshelves, and the floor was strewn with soft cushions. A single window, narrow and very high, was letting some natural light in. Sherlock was dumbfounded; after the cold room where Harry kept her weapons and trophies, this small and secret library seemed like some kind of heaven made of leather, gold, and paper. John sat on one of the cushions, and he tapped the one beside it, signalling for Sherlock to join him.

"You see," John said, "I am never alone here; the walls are filled with magic, rage, and passion. For the men and women living in these pages, there is nothing monstrous about me."

They weren't touching, but Sherlock had never felt closer to John. There was something intimate about the atmosphere, something about being inside, surrounded by walls built by man instead of nature. Without the outside elements to distract Sherlock's senses, the dominating scent was the mask's, its smell different from the one of the books. It was a beast's scent. And a man's scent too.

In this cave of words and paper that seemed like the most wondrous of treasures, Sherlock felt more than ever the desire to caress his friend's face. He was gazing at the mask, thinking about how easy it would be to stretch his neck a little bit and peek into the tiny gap where leather met skin to discover what John was hiding, but as usual, he didn't.

John suddenly got up and took Sherlock's hands in his, helping him up to his feet. Then, he spun him around until he was facing the book-covered wall they had been leaning on a moment before. Sherlock was a few inches taller, the perfect height for John to lay his forehead on the taller man's shoulder without having to bend down or stand on tip toes. Sherlock shuddered when he felt John's arm circling his waist and his hand laying low on his abdomen. When John grabbed his left hand and guided it to the bookshelves until it was resting flat against the book spines, Sherlock held his breath. Something was happening, and although he had no idea what, he couldn't wait for it to unfold.

"Close your eyes," John whispered.

The sensations were getting more overwhelming every second, and Sherlock could feel _everything. _John's breath on his skin, his hair tickling his neck, his slightly rough hand covering his own, the warmth where they were pressed together, and the fire John had lit by putting a hand on his abdomen that had spread everywhere. Even if he had tried, there was no way he could have pretended those were their usual comforting touches; craving was seeping through their moves, and every single cell in Sherlock's body was screaming for him to turn his head and press his lips to John's. Yet, he didn't budge, and the surge of sensations was intoxicating; he was basking in it, and craving more.

"Pick a book," John murmured as his thumb drew small circles on Sherlock's belly, "the tenth treasure is a look through the window of the imaginary world I was telling you about. Pick a book and we'll read it together. After you've played for me."

With his eyes still closed, Sherlock could almost feel the books vibrating under his hand, as if his hand were touching a sea of possible worlds trying to get out. He felt dizzy.

"You know them, and I don't. Pick one John, please."

He couldn't recognize the pleading sounds his vocal cords were emitting. This wasn't his voice. John used the hand covering Sherlock's to slowly stroke the book spines, and for a long time, he pondered before deciding on one and tapping it gently with his index finger.

"This one," he said, and Sherlock took if off the shelf. He felt John's hand sliding on his waist as he turned around to hand him the book.

"Now, I would very much like to hear the sounds you can draw from your violin," John said as he took a step back, breaking all contact between the two of them.

Sherlock missed the warmth of John's hand, but he found it was suddenly rather easier to breathe and think now they weren't touching. He opened his violin case, delicately picked up the instrument, and rested it against his chin while he tried to decide what to play. His eyes caught the light coming from the small window, and he looked out, hoping the inspiration would shine through. The storm was still raging outside, snowflakes were being thrown around mercilessly by the wind, and suddenly Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to play. For John. Who had taken a seat on a cushion, his legs stretched out in front of him as he watched Sherlock intently, his full attention focused on him.

After one last glance at the storm outside, the bow finally hit the strings as Sherlock started playing small saccadic notes. At first very quietly, but getting stronger as the tension built. Then, suddenly, the notes seemed to be flying everywhere, and to John, it felt as though Sherlock had brought the wind inside the room, a cold and icy winter wind, the kind that enters your body and clutches at your bones. He played three dishevelling gusts of wind, then the saccades were back, but with much more tension, and for a moment it seemed as though nature was holding its breath, and so was John. When Sherlock attacked the next section, the wind was thick with snowflakes, and John let out a breath, relief running through him, and somehow he knew what it felt like for nature to be so heavy, to feel so much pressure and finally to let it go all at once, spraying the air with sudden snow so thick it resembled tufts of hare fur.

In John's head, snow was filling the small library, obscuring everything except Sherlock. Then, as it was often the case in nature, the snow subsided, and now John could only see little white flakes dancing in a wind that wasn't blowing as violently as before. After the wave of relief he had felt moments before, he was now filled with a sense of calm apprehension. He had seen many snow storms in Québec; he knew not to let himself be lulled into a false sense of calm, that the storm was bound to pick up strength again. It did, and at first it was barely noticeable, a slight change in the biting cold notes, but soon pressure was building again, and after the drop of a few teasing flakes, the sky overflowed again, painting everything white until nature – and John – finally let out a sigh, and it was over.

Sherlock was panting slightly when he started the second movement. The storm was clearly over, but John could still see twinkling, undisturbed snow on the floor, just like on a morning after a storm when it's too early for anyone to have left traces. It felt like a beautiful winter day, one without clouds, and with a stunning sun; a day when it's so cold the inside of your nose seems to freeze the moment you step outside. John could feel the cold emanating from the high strings Sherlock was stroking almost lazily, and for a moment, he almost tightened his coat around himself before remembering he was still inside, wasn't wearing his coat, and was, in fact, not at all cold.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, and he looked as though he was merely resting against the instrument. His hand holding the bow was moving slowly and effortlessly, and the one playing the strings on the neck didn't even look like it belonged to him as it seemed to be doing its own thing while ignoring the rest of his body, but somehow it worked. Sherlock must have felt observed because he opened his eyes as he was finishing the second movement. His grey eyes had never looked more beautiful than on that moment when John's head was full of sparkling snow. They looked just like winter: capable of powerful storms, icy gusts of winds, peaceful moments, blinding suns, and playful snowflake dances. There was the suggestion of a smile on Sherlock's lips, but it was gone when he closed his eyes again and began the third and final movement.

At first, John could still sense some sort of peacefulness, but not the same kind one feels on a sunny morning. The sky in John's head was clouded, and he felt heavier. He could see snow falling once again, but there was no sense of relief, no long awaited liberation from a heavy burden. The snow fell relentlessly, adding inches after inches on top of the white blanket already covering everything. He felt as one does on those days when winter stretches on and refuses to let go, when every inch of added snow feels heavier than a ton of brick. Sherlock played the despair that comes with it, and John felt an invisible hand holding him down, slowing his every moves.

Eventually, he started hearing high notes that sounded like hope and timid sunrays, but winter stretched on until finally the room seemed a few degrees warmer, and snow turned into rain. Heavy winter rain that makes everything grey, but speaks of upcoming spring. He welcomed the rain, saw it digging into the earth's white coat until, one day, it would be gone. Like a criminal leaving quietly after a six month crime spree of paralyzing villagers, hiding bushes and flowers, slowing down animal life, and freezing everything.

John knew spring was coming, and he felt hopeful, but with one last swish of the bow, music ceased, and for a moment, John felt as if he were floating, suspended in between two seasons. He had to blink a few times before he could remember where he was and with whom. Sherlock had lowered the violin, and he was looking at him expectantly. John knew he had to say something, to put words on what he had felt during the ten minutes his friend had been playing, but when he opened his mouth to speak, the only thing he managed was "Sherlock…."

Nice effort, but not enough. He tried again. "Sherlock, I…."

Sherlock was putting his violin back in its case, trying to hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The ten minutes he had spent playing had successfully cooled him down; totally immersing himself in the music tended to have that effect. He was feeling quite good about himself right now; he knew he was an exceptionally talented violinist, and the piece he had chosen fitted the atmosphere so perfectly he was sure John had felt something powerful. Judging by John's valiant, although unsuccessful attempts at speech, Sherlock could congratulate himself on having been successful. When he turned towards John once again, he still didn't look like himself.

"Come here, you magnificent marvel of a man," John said, and Sherlock didn't need to be told twice.

Sherlock made himself comfortable beside his friend, and when John raised an arm and draped it around his shoulders, Sherlock welcomed the embrace and rested his head on John's chest, just under his shoulder. It was a fascinating position; he could feel both John's breathing and heartbeat, and he could concentrate on either one of them to calm down should a fire be awoken in his own body again

"Mm, pillow," Sherlock said as he shifted against John, silently cursing his long limbs. He didn't know where to put his hands, and he would have been more at ease with his left leg draped over John's, but he didn't feel that daring.

"Mm, kitten," John replied as he tangled his left hand in his friend's curls, alternating between massaging the scalp and stroking the soft hair.

"I'm serious Sherlock, what you played was beautiful. I could see it. In fact, I could _feel_ it."

Sherlock's only response was a knowing humming sound. He knew exactly what John was talking about; he had felt it too.

"How long have you been playing?"

"I started when I was six years old, but I was obsessed with that violin for as long as I can remember. It belonged to my uncle, but Aunt Martha kept it in the living room, and I was smitten. Eventually, she gave it to me; she was glad to see someone else playing it after all those years."

John's hand was low enough that his thumb could stroke Sherlock's neck, and he did, in slow up and down motions. Sherlock shivered, and he felt his heart quickening very slightly. John must have felt his reaction, because his heart started beating just a little bit quicker too. It was fascinating, as if their hearts were having their own private conversation.

John's hand dipped lower until his palm was on Sherlock's neck, and he stroked the soft skin hidden by his shirt collar. Sherlock's breath hitched, and warmth spread from his neck to his extremities. Once again, his heart rate quickened, but more significantly this time. John felt it too, of course he did; their chests were pressed together.

"Do you want me to read for a while?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered in response, and John grabbed the thick leather book he had put on the floor, opened it, and began to read.

"On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the bourg of Meung, in which the author of the 'Romance of the Rose'was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second Rochelle of it…"

John read for a long time, and Sherlock tried his best to pay attention to the men wearing capes and fighting for justice. Nevertheless, he kept focusing on John's voice, his charming accent, his changing tone and inflexions, the sound he sometimes made as he licked his lips when he turned the pages, and always, always the gentleness of the hand stroking his neck.

At one point, John stopped reading to make tea that he brought back on a tray with biscuits. He set the tray down beside them, and they switched positions. Sherlock sat with his back to the wall, and John positioned himself between his legs. He picked up the book, and he resumed reading as Sherlock slid his left arm around John's waist, keeping his right hand free to take frequent sips of his tea.

Once he was done with his beverage, around the time John was describing Athos' valet (Grimaud, frightfully dull man, never smiled or laughed), Sherlock got distracted by his friend's hair. He had thoroughly analyzed the colour during their previous meetings, and he had felt its texture. Now, he wanted to smell it. He pressed his cheek to the side of John's head and inhaled deeply. Multiple times.

"Although Athos was scarcely thirty years old, and was of great personal beauty, and intelligence of mind, no one knew that he had ever had a mistress. He never spoke of– Sherlock, are you _smelling_ me?"

"Yes. Your hair doesn't smell the same everywhere."

"What does it smell like?"

"Soap, roses, tea, and snow. It's most puzzling."

"Well, by all means, continue your exploration. Do you want me to stop reading?" John asked before taking another sip of tea.

"Don't stop. I like Athos."

John continued to read, and Sherlock put his face back in John's hair. The scent was lovely, but by far his favourite spot was close to the neck. Obviously, he wondered if the neck's scent influenced the hair, so he lowered his head and inhaled. Surprisingly, the neck had a decidedly distinct smell from the hair; a mix of soap, wool, and something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

John breathed in sharply, and he had to stop reading for a few seconds when Sherlock brushed his nose against his neck. When he resumed his description of Bazin, Aramis' lackey, he did so with a slightly shakier voice. Sherlock's nose was now buried under John's right ear where he smelled like warm cream, and pretty soon smelling him wasn't enough; the urge to press his lips to John's skin became stronger with every breath Sherlock was taking.

When he couldn't resist the temptation anymore, he spotted the best smelling spot – halfway between neck and ear, just below the hair – and he pressed his closed lips to the skin. Once again, John stopped reading, but this time he didn't continue; he tilted his head back and slightly to the left to give his friend better access. For a while, Sherlock was happy just to run his closed mouth on John's neck, feeling the warmth, the remarkably thin and soft hair, and the goose bumps rising every time he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

Once he felt he had analyzed the entire available area with his closed mouth, he pulled away from John's neck, licked his lips, and resumed his exploration with his parted and wet lips. John's eyes squeezed shut, he arched his back, and the hand that had been holding the book fell to the floor, toppling the empty teacup.

"Sherlock…" he whispered, and as his only response, Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's cardigan and tightened his grip on his waist.

Every time Sherlock's lips made contact with John's neck, he sucked in the air he had trapped, and the way John shivered and tried to lean into the touch were more than enough hints telling Sherlock not to stop. Once he reached John's ear, he captured the lobe between his lips and gave the tiniest amount of suction. John's back arched again, and he moaned. When he realized it, he slapped a hand to his mouth, and Sherlock let go of the earlobe to chuckle.

Realizing he had another hand, and that it wasn't occupied at the moment, Sherlock placed it on John's chest, over his heart, and he felt his friend's quickened heartbeat, much quicker than it had been earlier. Since John didn't seem to object to the scrutiny of his neck, Sherlock once again pressed his open lips to the skin, just below the ear, but this time he added his tongue, and finally he could taste John. It was even better than he had imagined, there were no words other than _John _to describe the flavour. It was marvellous.

John couldn't remember the last time he had felt such raw pleasure. Sherlock had been the first person – other than Clara – to willingly touch him since he had returned broken from the war, but everything before today had been friendly and innocent. This, judging by the physical response it was causing, was not innocent at all. Sherlock's nose had been a surprise, his lips had been unusually pleasant, but his tongue, precise and experimenting, made him want to scream, lean back, and push into Sherlock until they were the very same person. He thought Sherlock was bound to bite off a piece of his neck soon if he kept the same rhythm, but John didn't mind, he would allow him do so without any questions or protests. At that point, he didn't care that this was the tenth treasure, and he didn't care about the possibility that Sherlock wouldn't want to see him again once the game was over. All he wanted was more of his friend's mouth on him, and if this was their last meeting, at least the memories would keep him warm at night.

Similar thoughts were running through Sherlock's head, but he was pushing them away as his kisses on John's neck got more desperate. There wasn't enough skin, enough contact, enough data. He wanted to explore some more, compare the scents, tastes, and textures of skin. He wanted more, so much more than he could wrap his mind around, but he didn't know how to ask for those things or how to take them. All he could do was squeeze John tighter against his chest, and whisper his name between open-mouthed kisses.

Eventually, John couldn't stand his passive role. He reluctantly pulled away, and he turned around to look at Sherlock. He searched the grey eyes, looking for a sign that this was a terrible idea, but he found none. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and there wasn't a hint of fear in them, just curiosity and something that looked like mild surprise. His lips were parted, and his breathing was heavier than usual; he looked gorgeous. John nervously licked his lips, and he straddled his friend's thighs. Sherlock immediately got the message, and he squeezed his legs together to offer John better support.

John rested his hands on either sides of Sherlock's throat, and he stroked the skin with his thumbs, delicately as if not to break him. Then, finally, he lowered his head and attached his lips to the other man's neck. Sherlock gasped as his head hit the wall of books behind him, and he grabbed John's woollen cardigan with both hands. He wondered if that's how it had felt for John when it had been his lips on his neck, but the thought was gone when John flicked his tongue, and his eyes rolled back.

"John…" he half said, half moaned as John made his way from his throat to his chin where he paused to bite gently before moving up to his right ear.

"You're beautiful," John whispered before pressing his lips to the side of Sherlock's ear.

"Exquisite," he said before kissing his right eyelid.

"Gorgeous", he murmured as he kissed his other eyelid.

Both of Sherlock's hands had slid down and were now resting on John's hips. Part of him was mortally embarrassed; John had obviously noticed his erection, but he didn't seem to mind, and had Sherlock looked down, he would have noticed the matching tightness in his friend's trousers. No matter how embarrassed he felt, it was hard to linger on the feeling when John was stroking his throat and kissing his face. His inner thighs were on fire, he could feel his heart pounding in his groin, and he felt as though an invisible hand was twisting his organs around. Meanwhile, John continued his exploration of Sherlock's face.

"Handsome, stunning," he said as he kissed each gravity defying cheekbone before pecking the tip of his nose.

"Delightful," he added, and Sherlock could hardly breathe anymore, he felt as if the whole room was waiting for something to happen. He couldn't hear anything other than John's breathing, see anything other than John's blue eyes lost in the mask, smell anything other than John, and feel anything other than John.

Everything was John, John, John.

"Ravishing," John whispered before pressing their lips together, and, finally, they were kissing.


	15. Chapter 15

Dear Readers,

I'm sorry.

* * *

><p>They were kissing. <em>Kissing!<em> Sherlock felt as though he was letting out a breath he had been holding all his life. He could feel the mask against his nose as John tilted his head to a better angle, and when John licked his lower lip in invitation, Sherlock let him in willingly, parting his lips to let out a small sigh. They both had a hand on the other's neck, trying to be closer, and when Sherlock pulled John to him using the hand resting on his lower back, their groins met, and their combined gasps echoed loudly in the small library. However, they weren't loud enough to cover the noises of slamming doors and screams getting closer.

Harry Watson had planned the whole thing. She had lied to her brother about the duration of the trip in order to catch him and his friend in whatever they were doing. On one of her trips to the store, she had heard a disturbing rumour, something about her brother and that strange Holmes boy having been spotted locked in an embrace while out in the woods.

Upon hearing his sister's screams, John fervently pressed his hands to the sides of Sherlock's face, and he looked straight into his eyes.

"Please, Sherlock, please don't move. Stay here, it's fine. It's all going to be fine", he said before leaving him and closing the door of the small library.

As soon as John was gone, Sherlock got up and glued his ear to the door to hear what was going on in the next room. He couldn't see, but from what he could hear, Harry was hysterical. He could hear her bellowing that John had disobeyed her, lied to her, and that he had made a fool of himself and of the Watson name.

A table was violently turned over, and Sherlock could hear objects falling to the floor in a loud clatter. Thinking about the multitude of weapons in the other room, about their easy access, and about the furious hunter, he imagined the worst and, forgetting all about John's words, he rushed out and into the other room.

Harry Watson was hammering John's chest with her fists, and she was screaming abuse while he – taller and stronger than his sister – was watching her with inscrutable eyes. Suddenly, John noticed Sherlock, and vivid apprehension set his blue eyes on fire. Harry noticed, turned around, and discovered the other man's presence.

"I knew it!" she roared as she took a few steps towards Sherlock.

John reacted quickly; he ran in the same direction, and he stopped halfway between Harry and Sherlock, shooting the latter a glance heavy with reproach. Secretly, Sherlock had dreamt of this moment, hoping to get the chance to spit his anger in the cruel sister's face. He wanted to call her a jailer and a torturer, to force her to leave her brother alone, and to destroy the beast she had created in the first place by isolating him and showering him with contempt and shame. However, when the moment presented itself in this immense room where dead animals seemed to be staring at him, faced with John's reproachful eyes and crushed by Harry's hatred, he felt incredibly small and defenseless. Helplessness rooted him to the spot.

Harry respected the distance imposed by her brother as she examined Sherlock disdainfully. She didn't even notice that his eyes were as grey as the sky during a winter storm, and she didn't notice that they were fixed on her brother, both pleading and sad. What she noticed, however, were John's eyes in which she read everything she had feared to see.

Her brother was in love. It's something she had dreaded since the accident, something she had tried to avoid by keeping John away from everyone, because, from her point of view, it was grotesque. Neither woman nor man could ever fall for someone disfigured in such a way; horror and love couldn't be associated.

"Look at him!" she bellowed at Sherlock. "His eyes speak volumes, just look at him!"

Sherlock couldn't move. He had been yelled at numerous times, had been ridiculed for most of his life, had endured sarcasm, mockery, and hateful remarks, but never had someone looked at him with such hate.

"He loves you!" Harry screamed. "He loves you like a fool. Like your father loved your mother, the teasing whore. And you're just like her. But you're clever, much cleverer than she was. You seduced a rich man…."

She continued, but Sherlock couldn't hear anymore, his heart was beating so hard it was drowning out words. He felt dizzy and nauseated, but he understood that John loved him, and as he searched his fiend's blue eyes, he couldn't see any denial.

John got closer. He couldn't stand to see his friend looking so lost and distressed, but he was powerless and couldn't shut his sister up. He couldn't deny that he was in love with Sherlock. He had been since the first time he had brought him to Lover's Island, since the first time he had sparked a smile on those plump lips, had encountered the brilliant mind, had heard the deep voice and felt, as a result, the warmth of a thousand suns on his skin. John knew he loved Sherlock. There wasn't any bigger certitude.

Yet, John had promised himself he would never fall in love. The chances of someone reciprocating his feelings were extremely thin. Clara had been able to love him unmasked, but she had been family and had loved him before the accident. He couldn't hope for the same courtesy from anyone else; if his own sister was revolted by his appearance, how could a stranger ever look past what he looked like. He had consoled himself by thinking about the intrigues – joyful and sorrowful – hidden in the pages bound under leather covers. Nonetheless, it had happened anyway. He had been curious after the first encounter with Sherlock, while both of them had been hiding from Harry. After the conversation on pieces of paper slid under a door, he had been infatuated. Since their first proper meeting, he was in love. In love with the peculiar and lonely man from Sailboat Bay.

At first, he had tried convincing himself that it didn't truly count. Sherlock was so exceptional and unique; it was like loving an elf. Then, he had invented the game, the treasure hunt; he had given them ten meetings. He couldn't show him his face, but he could try to show him the world through his eyes. The plan had been to enjoy Sherlock's formidable presence during the ten meetings, then resume his normal life with his head filled with memories, images, and feelings, but somewhere along the way he had realized he couldn't handle the thought of a life without his best friend.

So he had thought about the perfect tenth treasure. If Sherlock wasn't bored with him, if he was interested in pursuing their relationship, the tenth treasure opened the door to an infinite world. He would read to him, pages and pages. In the Fairy Cave, or on the border of Salty Swamp, among the eider nests, in a boat on the open sea, on the rocks of Enraged Cape, or on the other side of the world. There was no other way, their story had to last, but if he didn't want Sherlock to fall apart, if he didn't want his heart to break, he had to convince him not to listen to the hateful words his sister was shouting. Later, once this was over, he would whisper tenderly into his ear, and shower him with loving, healing words.

John extended a hand that Sherlock, paralyzed, didn't take. He was shaking, and confronted with Harry's wrath, he felt smaller than he had ever felt. Yet, he couldn't stop looking at her. She spotted his gaze on her, and knew she had the upper hand. Ignoring John, she took a few steps towards Sherlock and started shouting again.

"Look at him! He loves you!"

Her voice was shaking with anger, and her eyes were shooting daggers.

"Look at him and say you love him. Him, The Beast. Say you didn't seduce him because he's rich enough to buy this whole village!"

"No, I—" was all Sherlock managed to say.

"You're wrong! The fortune he inherited is even bigger than anything you could ever imagine. So tell me that it's my brother's face, and not his wealth you are interested in."

Sherlock tried to speak once again, but had little success. He was out of his depth, swimming in a kind of madness he wasn't accustomed to, and he felt as if he was drowning in it. He had never seen such an outpouring of contempt, never imagined such bile in one woman's heart. He was petrified. As he was trying to understand his agitation, he heard Harry yell the same obsessive phrase one last time.

"Look at him!"

Sherlock looked at John. Harry Watson then extended an arm towards her brother, and in one brutal move she tore the mask off.

The silence was dreadful. John was looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock was looking at John. He saw the holes, the destroyed flesh, the crater where there should have been a cheek, and the gnawed nose. It looked even worse than he had imagined.

However, among the damages, there were the eyes. Two magnificent blue orbs, beautiful and devastating. Standing over the wounds, without the mask casting a shadow over them, they weren't only moving; they were flooding his whole face until Sherlock couldn't see anything other than the deep blue silk, the dark velvet, and the shimmering sea.

It was too many sensations (_John_), too many feelings (_John),_ and Sherlock's mind was spinning (_John_). Harry was laughing hysterically (_John_), the trophies were staring at him (_John_), and somehow he could hear their laughter too (_John_). It had to stop, John's eyes were fixed on him (_John_), consuming him (_John_), and he could still feel Harry's hatred crawling under his skin (_John_).

Too much.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and he lowered his head.

As the man he loved looked away from his deformed face, John's world was shattered, and he felt his heart breaking.

"Leave," he said in a harsh voice that seemed like a whisper compared to Harry's yelling, but it was much worse. "Leave and don't come back, I never want to see you again."

Harry grabbed Sherlock's forearm and twisted until he was pliant. She manhandled him out of the room, into the corridors, and out the door that she slammed shut behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

Humming softly to herself, Marie Turner was doing the dishes while distractedly looking at the storm still raging outside. It was part of her evening routine; next she would bring tea to Sebastian and Jim in the living room, and after that, she would start getting ready for bed. She was surprised when someone knocked on the door; they rarely got visitors, and when they did, they never came that late. Dropping her dishtowel on the counter, she wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the door.

She gasped upon opening it. Sherlock was standing on the porch, his clothes were covered in snow, his eyes were wild, and his lips were blue from the cold. He looked as though he had been dropped there by a whirlwind of snow.

"Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed. "You're not even wearing a coat, what happened to you?"

He didn't answer. The walk from the Watsons' manor had been a long one, but he hadn't even felt the fierce wind piercing his clothes and the frozen snow whipping his face relentlessly. He had walked as if in a bad dream, isolated from the rest of the world, entirely focused on moving forward despite the pain. He had put one foot before the other while ignoring the fact that all the murderous beasts of all the forests in the world had crawled under his skin, and were now fighting for his entrails.

Unsure of what to do, Mrs. Turner decided to lead the young man to the living room where a fire had been lit earlier. Jim or Sebastian would probably know how to handle the situation. She opened the door, and the two men looked up. They were both sitting on the couch, Sebastian was leaning against the armrest, and he had his arms around Jim who was sitting between his legs, a book in one hand while he stroked his husband's leg with the other. Upon seeing them, Sherlock let out a small cry akin to a sob, and he fell to the floor.

Sebastian, the strongest of the two, picked him up and brought him up the stairs to the spare bedroom where he gently laid him down, stripped him of his wet clothes so he wouldn't get sick, and piled several blankets on his trembling body.

Sherlock spent several days in the small bedroom, fighting against a violent fever and invisible assailants. Sometimes, he screamed as though a flock of gulls were trying to eat him alive. On those occasions, when he woke up, he sat up straight, driven by energy only anguish seemed to fuel.

"Look at him, look at him!" he repeated, panicked.

He refused to eat. Gregory, who had been informed of his friend's condition by Moriarty, came every day with some of Sherlock's favourite food, cooked just for him by Sarah, but to no avail. On the third day, Moran got the doctor to come, and he suggested mustard and camphor poultices, but they had already applied some multiples times, without any visible results.

On the fourth day, he still looked weak and spiritless. Martha, who had come back from Rimouski in the afternoon, sat alone with her nephew for a long time. She understood that something had been ripped away from him, that he was wasting away in some cold and gloomy den; all the light had left his body. At one point, she got up, walked to the window, and looked out at the night sky.

"The Pole Star is paler tonight, it's been like that for a few nights. I think, somewhere on Spruce Cape, something happened that was so terrible that even the stars lost some of their light."

Gregory, Jim, and Sebastian had tried appeasing Sherlock by telling him everything was well, and hoping he would come back to them. Martha understood that she had to go to him and meet him in the dark place in which he had taken refuge. She had to find the prison in which he was hiding and dig a tunnel back to the light. There wasn't any other way.

"For the sky to make such a big deal out of it, it must have been something atrocious, right dear? The kind of thing that takes your breath away and robs you of all strength. I have lived this before; I know how much it hurts. You wake up with a smashed ribcage, crushed lungs, and a twisted heart. I know."

Sherlock was looking up at his aunt, all ears. He was drinking up her words like a castaway in the desert drinks offered water.

"It seems as though nothing can sooth away the pain, it feels as if you're condemned to endure day after day, and the prospect is horrible."

She paused for a moment, but Sherlock's eyes never left her kind face.

"For some people, it ends there. Yet, some turn their heads towards the sky. Miraculously or by mistake, it doesn't matter. They feel as though they are sinking into mud, half buried already, and they pray, they hope for the other half to be buried soon. Then, suddenly, they look up, and they see that the sky, as dark as a wolf's mouth, is freckled with stars. Hundreds, thousands of small silvery eyes, winking and twinkling."

Slowly, she tore herself away from the window, but she didn't sit beside Sherlock again. Before leaving, she looked at him and offered a smile filled with hope.

"Only you can decide, dear. You can stay in your hole, or you can look up. While you make up your mind, I will be waiting for you at home, but I do hope you'll choose to look up and come back home."

On that night, Sherlock wasn't as restless as he had been the nights before. The next day, he drank some of the vegetable stock Moriarty offered, and he took a few bites of bread. Then, he slept again for several hours during which his fever subsided.

The next day was a Saturday, and Gregory wasn't working, so he spent the whole day with his friend who finally told him the edited account of what had happened in the Watsons' manor. He couldn't speak of his desire, of the kiss, and of warmth of John's lips against his own, because he didn't know what to think of it, and he couldn't put words on what he had felt. However, he told him everything about Harry's anger and her devastating words.

"He thought I was disgusted," Sherlock told his friend, "that his face was terrifying me. It's not true. I couldn't move; it was too much. Harry's incessant screams and all her hateful words had petrified me. There was so much disgust and spite on her face when she tore the mask off, I was shaken."

"How bad was it?" Gregory asked.

He wasn't used to his friend's distress, and therefore felt a little awkward, but he often found that talking about problems helped wrap one's mind around them, so he tried to be helpful and make Sherlock talk.

"I saw the holes and the lacerations, and it really looked horrible. But at the same time, it wasn't that bad. Because all I could see were his eyes, it was like watching an awful stormy sky, but with the sun shining through right in the middle. I could only see the sun."

It wasn't something Sherlock would have done before, talking in metaphors. It was all because of John and his beautiful treasures. John who had showed him things he had seen before, but who had thought him how to appreciate them with a different set of eyes. John whose heard he had destroyed, Sherlock thought, and he swallowed with difficulty.

On that same day, Sherlock returned home, and for the first few days afterward he didn't leave the house, but stayed curled up in his bed while the skull shot him accusing glares. A week later, on Sunday, Martha convinced him to accompany her to the weekly dinner at the Lestrades' house. Sarah was now an official member of their little clan, so was Molly, and for the first time, Moran and Moriarty had been invited seeing as they had been so helpful and kind while taking care of Sherlock.

The meal was delicious; Mrs. Lestrade had cooked Sherlock's favourite dessert, and Mr. Lestrade had opened one of his best wine bottles. The discussions were pleasant, but Sherlock was keeping to himself, sometimes shooting quizzical glances at Molly who was babbling almost incessantly about things that usually would have made Sherlock want to eat his own head. However, on that night, he seemed to be paying attention. Sarah noticed, of course, and she elbowed her husband excitedly, but Gregory watched the scene with apprehensive eyes. He had seen that expression on Sherlock's face before, but he had been talking about dissecting animals at the time; his interest in Molly couldn't end well.

:::

During that week, Sally Donovan hastily left for Québec City. One of her aunts, mother of many children, was said to be terribly sick, and Sally had accepted to lend her a helping hand.

"It could take a few months," Sally's mother told anyone who would listen, "my sister was never strong, she's lucky to have such a devoted and courageous niece; her children are unbearable."

As soon as Sally was gone, along with her mother who would help her get settled, Jonathan Anderson arrived in the store with a different story.

"Sally is pregnant," he said in a confidence tone to one of his neighbours, but he was talking loud enough for everyone in the store to hear.

"Her parents don't want people to see her swell up, so she's hiding in Québec until she gets her figure back."

The declaration startled everyone in the store, and people started murmuring hurriedly. Encouraged, Anderson continued his story. He said The Beast had assaulted Sally on a stormy day when her boat had been deported in East Birches Bay. Anderson also claimed he had been the one to find her and accompany her back home.

"Her skirt was torn, her hair a mess, and she had gone spare. The Beast is a real heartless savage without honour. If I were Sally's father, I would have complained, but he probably didn't want to ruin his daughter's reputation."

Gregory was disgusted. He wanted nothing more than to accuse Anderson of being an inconsiderate liar, but he couldn't say anything without betraying Sherlock, so he remained calm, but couldn't resist voicing an opinion.

"What you're saying is bound to harm Donovan's reputation."

Anderson shrugged.

"In the end, the truth always comes out, I'm just accelerating the process. I hope it can prevent other poor girls from getting molested by The Beast, and maybe encourage the men to get rid of him once and for all."

"You're right about one thing, Anderson," Gregory added, "truth always comes out in the end."

Gregory had promised himself he would inform Sherlock of the rumours Anderson was peddling around town; he was just waiting for the right moment. Ten days later, the right moment hadn't presented itself yet when Harry Watson entered the store. She was returning from a trip in which she had established new contacts with other seal hunters. More than ever, her brother was hiding, but she still made frequent visits to the busy part of town, and that's how she had heard what her brother was being accused of.

Upon entering the store, she sat at the chess table where Gregory and Sherlock had played many games along the years. She took a whisky flask out of her pocket and offered it around. It was a few weeks before Christmas, lent was still very far away, so most people accepted a sip. When the flask was back in her hands, Harry took a huge gulp and cleared her throat before talking.

"My brother is ugly, but he's not blind," she bitterly said, "he would never be interested in a girl like Sally Donovan. Had he been that desperate, I would have found him someone for a few nights. Someone smarter than that strumpet who has to exile herself to Québec City, because she doesn't know how to fuck without getting pregnant."

Had the priest been present, he would have died on the spot. Everyone in the store was dumbfounded, and no one was talking, waiting to see how far Harry Watson would push her outrageous speech. The tension could almost be felt; even the devil would have had less of an impact if he had decided to enter the store at that moment.

"No reproaches can be addressed to my brother, except perhaps his naivety. He almost got caught in the net of a money seeking cockteaser," Harry continued, anger dripping like venom from her voice.

"There are people a lot more dangerous than Sally Donovan; they smell wealth, and they sneak around until they can sink their teeth into it. That Holmes bastard did everything he could to seduce my brother, but I caught him before it was too late, and if I ever see him sniffing around my brother again, I'll shoot him faster than a sleeping seal."

"Calm down, Harry!" a pilot called out. "What you're saying is serious! If something happens to Sherlock Holmes, you'll be the first suspect. Also, it's none of our business if he sneaked around your land, but I would be greatly surprised. Everyone knows Molly Hooper is head over heels for him; all he has to do is snap his fingers, and she'll come running. Also, if he's anything like Mrs. Hudson, your wealth won't interest him."

"Really?" roared Harry. "So I was hallucinating the day I found him locked in our small library with my brother? And my most faithful servant must be a lunatic too, since he ended up admitting Holmes had been seeing my brother in secret for months, at all hours of the day and night."

The people in the store were shocked, and Gregory knew it was time for him to tell Sherlock all the terrible things that were being said about John and him around town. He hated that he had to do this, but he still wanted to be the one to tell him. So he walked to Sailboat Bay, and he found him sitting on a small snow mound, wrapped in several heavy woollen blankets of the strangest orange colour. He was looking at the frozen sea without actually seeing it, lost in thoughts. A small smile was playing on his lips, something Gregory hadn't seen since Sherlock had been thrown out of the Watsons' manor. He was mostly walking around with a blank expression clouding his grey eyes. Often, Gregory had tried to make him talk, to help him overcome the depression taking hold of him, but his efforts had been fruitless, and most of the time they ended up playing chess in silence. He got closer and sat down silently, careful not to break the charm.

"I saw a big bird of prey that looked a lot like the one John had been feeding," Sherlock said in a dreamy voice without turning to face his friend. "Have you ever noticed how those birds fly higher than other birds? They seem more confident than all the other birds."

Gregory wanted nothing more than to talk about birds, sky, and wind. Instead, he told Sherlock about the rumour Anderson had started and how Harry Watson had reacted, accusing him of attempted wealth theft. Sherlock listened, unmoving. At first, Gregory was scared that his friend had retreated to his dark and hidden place, far away from the world surrounding him, but when he looked at him, he noticed the droplet on his mouth. Sherlock hadn't said a thing, and physically, he looked just as calm as he had been, but he had bitten his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

"What are you thinking about?" Gregory asked.

"Harry was screaming: Look at him! Look at him! I looked, and I could see it in his eyes. It was true; he loved me. Can you imagine that? He loved _me_," Sherlock answered in an even, emotionless tone.

"Before he hated me," he added as an afterthought.

He stopped for a moment, looking up at the sky. Gregory feared his friend was done talking and that he wouldn't continue his confidences. However, he spoke again.

"I thought about it a lot. Now I understand why John chooses to obey his sister's orders, why he prefers to live in hiding, even when the mask hides everything. You see, it must have been so hard to find some kind of balance, to find happiness despite the vivid memories of people's disgust and screams. Slowly, he learned how not to feel alone in the company of animals, stars, plants, as well as the heroes who inhabit his books. With them, at last, he felt human, alive. He could forget his ravaged face. Before I ruined everything."

Gregory was about to protest, but Sherlock cut him short.

"When I closed my eyes, I made him believe he was nothing but a repulsive beast, that not even the closest of friendship could win against the horror he was inspiring. I cruelly reminded him of what was under the mask, what he had found many ways to forget before I entered his life and messed everything up."

Awkwardly, Gregory circled Sherlock's shoulders with his arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice.

"John's sister compared me to my mother, and she was right; all she did was make a mess of my father's life. I understand now, I won't destroy anything else, I'll make sure of it."

Something in Sherlock's tone made Gregory shiver, and his insides churned unpleasantly. His friend seemed to be making some formidable oaths and he wondered what was hiding behind these promises. One thing was sure, it didn't bode well.


	17. Chapter 17

I'm sorry for the delay, I was away for a few days and didn't have enough time to edit and post this chapter yesterday. It was a busy week, so I didn't have enough time to respond to all your lovely comments, but please know that I truly appreciate your feedback and your kind words. I'm quite a bit baffled that you're still reading and enjoying this story, so thank you so, so much.

* * *

><p>On Christmas Eve, Sherlock accompanied his aunt to church as per their agreement, which stipulated that she didn't bother him with religion and church during the year as long as he came with her on Christmas Eve. Sherlock was bored out of him mind, but for once, he wasn't bothered by it; the feeling was numbing, and he welcomed the unfeelingness with open arms. At least, when he wasn't thinking, nothing hurt.<p>

The priest was incessantly talking about the importance of preparing their hearts to welcome the mystery of baby Jesus' birth. He was also saying that on this day of festivities, everyone had to stay vigilant, especially when faced with young people spreading sin.

"How many of you knew that someone here was secretly seeing another man?" he said while glaring pitilessly at the parishioners. "A stranger, a man with a face marked by the Devil. But we must wonder, who's the guilty one? The Beast acting upon his urges, or the man who ignites them, leading the way to a path filled with lust, flesh, and sins?"

A terrible silence fell upon the church, soon followed by a procession of murmurs of approval. Then, inevitably, heads turned to look at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. A few benches away from them, Sarah was gripping her husband's hand, encouraging him to stay still and not make a scene. At some point, Martha had grabbed Sherlock's arm, but she let it go and stood up, tearing _oohs_ and _aahs _from the villagers. With her back straight, she walked towards the central aisle, genuflected in front of the altar, and left the church without a word.

Sherlock didn't move. He had endured the priest's words without letting anything show, but his body was stiff, and his eyes were vague. When his aunt left, he didn't follow. It was her way of protesting and denying the sins, but Sherlock's stillness looked a lot like a confession in the eyes of the parishioners.

Gregory knew better: his friend was broken.

Later that night, Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty held a Christmas reception for their little group. Sherlock hadn't been seen since after Mass, but it wasn't that unusual for him to disappear for short amounts of times, so no one was worried yet. Martha and the Lestrades – now including Sarah – were gathered in the two men's living room, enjoying drinks while Mrs. Turner was busy in the kitchen. She had cooked all day, and she was now setting up plates filled with some of her specialties: very spicy head cheese, fragrant meat pies flavoured with savory, biscotti dipped in sugar with raspberry syrup, and blueberry wine.

Everyone who had heard the priest's reprimands seemed to have put them at the back of their minds, and the festivities were well on their way when Sherlock surprised them all by entering the room with a flourish. He had clearly run to get there; he was short of breath and looked as though he had been through a tornado. Martha got up from where she had been sitting with Mrs. Lestrade, and she hurried to hug him tightly.

"My poor boy, where were you? And why won't you wear a coat? You'll catch your death!"

She fussed, simultaneously running a hand down his lapels while trying to smooth down his curls in which snow was melting. Sherlock tried to slap her hands away, but she was persistent.

"I don't have a coat anymore, but I do have some news," he said.

He paused for a moment, making sure he had everyone's attention.

"I'm getting married," he announced with a smile that really didn't reach his eyes.

After church, he had taken a long walk and had thought about his life since the incident in the manor. From an outsider's point of view, not much had changed; after all, friends fought and separated all the time. He still had Mrs. Hudson and their nice house, as well as Gregory Lestrade's friendship and their chess games. He didn't have his coat and his violin anymore, but those were material possessions, and weren't supposed to matter that much. He also had Sunday night dinners with a group of friendly people whose company he enjoyed and who seemed to like him, so anyone looking at his life would have deemed it pretty decent.

Yet, it was still incredibly, torturously painful. Whenever he was thinking, there was always a part of him thinking of John and his treasures, of his blue eyes, and of his gentle hands. It hurt so much, he felt like screaming. His only escape from the pain was boredom. Boredom numbed his mind and dulled his senses until he couldn't think or feel. What he had spent most of his life running away from, he was now addicted to. He craved boredom and the release it brought him, he needed it to survive the stretching days.

The days were bad, but the nights were worse; every night he was haunted by dreams of John. There were two kinds of dreams, both horrifying and haunting. In the first one, Harry Watson was tearing off the mask as John shouted for Sherlock to look at him, to see him for who he really was, and as Sherlock looked, John's face started to melt, blood gushing out of holes in his face. When he had those dreams, Sherlock woke up terrified and sometimes screaming. In the second kind of dream, he and John were kissing passionately while stroking eager skin and rubbing against each other. It felt like heaven, but there were never enough sensations, and he always woke up panting, covered in sweat, and excruciatingly hard. Yet, he felt so guilty that he could never bring himself release and end the agony. He deserved the agony.

At first, he had thought staying at work and doing nothing would successfully bore him out of his skull, but it was too quiet, too easy to _think,_ and once he started thinking, the pain returned. He had tried walking around town and listening to vapid conversations, and for a while it had been enough; his brain had gotten cluttered with so much futile information that it hadn't left much space for anything else. It had been extremely refreshing, but soon it hadn't been enough. He needed someone always to be there with him, someone who would talk incessantly, his very own boredom deliverer. His plan was straightforward enough, and it was time to take action.

So he had gone to the Hoopers' house where they had been celebrating Christmas. He hadn't doubted Molly would accept his proposal, but to respect the properties, he needed to ask for her father's blessing. He had knocked on their door and had requested a meeting with Mr. Hooper who hadn't been hard to persuade. Sherlock didn't have a good reputation, but Mr. Hooper knew his daughter had been infatuated with him since their first meeting. Also, Molly was getting older, and he wanted her future to be assured before his death. Sherlock was not a rich man, but he could provide his daughter with a nice house, and Mrs. Hudson would be there to make sure Sherlock was the best possible husband. It wasn't the best of scenarios, yet it was far from being the worst.

Molly had screamed, jumped, and cried with joy when Sherlock had asked. So had her mother; it was such a relief to know her daughter would not end up poor and alone. Sherlock hadn't stayed long, he had his own Christmas gathering to attend, but he had promised to be back two days later to start discussing wedding plans. He had never planned a wedding before, but the numbing possibilities seemed endless, and he was already craving them.

When Sherlock announced his engagement to the small group of people gathered in Moran and Moriarty's house, no one believed him until they remembered that he was not a prankster. Everyone was gobsmacked by the announcement, and for a while, they all stared at Sherlock with wide eyes and agape mouths. Sarah was first to recover from the shock, and she quickly got up to hug Sherlock, soon followed by Mrs. Lestrade and Mrs. Turner. It wasn't long before he was surrounded by a few people who were almost pushing each other to offer their congratulations. However, Gregory, Martha, and her two tenants seemed reluctant. For everyone else, the engagement was a sign Sherlock was moving on, that he was forgetting about his friend, was finally maturing and choosing a grown up life, but those closest to him suspected he had chosen a truly horrible way to deal with his pain. Moran and Moriarty, who were not easily fooled, spoke with Sherlock at the first opportunity.

"Sherlock, don't do this," Jim said almost pleadingly.

"We saw you when you came back from the manor. You didn't tell us what happened, and it's fine, but we saw you, we saw how sick you were. You don't belong in a marriage like this, you don't love her," Sebastian added.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, this is none of your business," Sherlock said as he turned to leave, but Sebastian grabbed his forearm.

"Time fixes everything, just give him time, he will come around," Jim said.

"He won't. Let me go," Sherlock said in a harsh tone, but Sebastian didn't loosen his grip.

"Sherlock, this is serious. It's a marriage, not atonement. You will be miserable, and you will break Miss Hooper's heart," Sebastian said while looking deep into Sherlock's eyes.

"I just need… this," Sherlock whispered, and he sounded so exhausted and broken that Sebastian finally let go of his arm and walked away, leaving his husband alone with Sherlock.

"We worry about you, and our offer still stands; if you need anything, or if you need to talk, please come to us," Jim said, and with those last words he was gone, Sherlock following a few seconds later to re-join the party.

Gregory tried to have a word with him, but Sherlock, anticipating his friend's concern, waved him off. Gregory couldn't help but wonder whether Molly was aware of her fiancé's grief, that he was trying to survive the loss of a wonderful friend, that he was ravaged by guilt and fear, petrified by the thought that he could be like his mother. Every sun John had lit up within him had been switched off.

Martha waited until they were back home after the party to speak with her nephew. Like Gregory, Moran, and Moriarty, she feared Sherlock was marrying for all the wrong reasons, and she urged him to put a stop to the whole masquerade before things got too far. After being ambushed by Moran and Moriarty, Sherlock was prepared; he had composed a clever speech in which he explained how the incident had made him realize it was time to settle down and act like an adult. Martha still seemed doubtful, though, so Sherlock promised himself he would try convincing her in the following weeks.

:::

On the day after Christmas, Sherlock sat with Mrs. Hooper and her daughter to start planning the wedding. They decided to do it in the spring, when the flowers would be blooming and they could hold the reception outside. Molly had dreamed about her ideal wedding since she was a girl, and she knew exactly what she wanted. She talked endlessly about dresses, ribbons, flowers, and candles; Sherlock had never been that bored in his whole life, and it felt exquisite. He stayed with them for dinner, and that night when he went to bed, he enjoyed a dreamless night for the first time since he had been thrown out of the manor.

Shrove Tuesday wasn't really celebrated that year; the mild spell of February had been one of the worst season demolisher anyone had ever seen, and most villagers were feeling quite dejected. During the four weeks of lent, Sainte-Cécile was beaten up pretty violently by horrible weather. Snow, rain, and black ice relayed each other to make everyone's life miserable. The tree branches were covered in a thick coat of clear ice, and although the forests looked lovely, walking outside was almost a safety hazard.

Harry Watson hadn't been seen in a while, but some maritime pilots had told Mr. Lestrade that her brother was sick. She had summoned the best doctor in Rimouski who hadn't found anything wrong with John's toned and strong body, so the illness still remained a mystery. Apparently, the doctor had asked him to remove the mask, fearing some kind of infection under the leather, but Harry had refused so vehemently that he had promised himself not to bring the subject up again. It wasn't long before the Beast's strange malady became one of the most discussed subjects around town.

Molly had a lot to do before the wedding, among others she had to work on her trousseau, so she and Sherlock didn't spend that much time together. However, she knew he visited Gregory in the store often, so she started leaving short notes for him there. The last one read:

_I often think of you,_

_Molly xxx_

"Molly is a nice girl," Gregory said with a triumphant grin as his knight took one of Sherlock's pawns.

Sherlock nodded and made a noncommittal noise as me moved his bishop. Gregory was holding his breath, he was rarely alone with his friend these days, and when they were together, he was sparing of words. He truly wished Sherlock would open up more, and he believed the key to Sherlock becoming his old self again was to liberate himself from all he was holding back.

"I took a walk with her the other day, I convinced her to go to the edge of Moose Cape to see the sunset. The air was nice, it smelled like snow."

Sherlock was staring intently at Gregory, as if trying to deduce whether he had ever noticed how snow smelled. It seemed terribly significant to him, so Gregory smiled and nodded, and Sherlock continued.

"I was thinking about John, of course, because the last time I had watched a sunset with someone, it had been with him, and he's the one who taught me how to be still."

For a moment, it seemed as though his voice had trembled, but Gregory wasn't sure, so he waited for the rest, he knew Sherlock hadn't told him everything. However, his friend remained silent, and eventually he decided to break the silence.

"Did you and Molly stay out long?"

Sherlock didn't react, it seemed as though he hadn't heard the question, but after a while, he finally answered.

"Molly was cold, and she was tired. We didn't stay long enough to watch the sun set completely."


	18. Chapter 18

The upcoming wedding created a lot of excitement, everyone knew about it and couldn't stop talking about it. The word most used was 'convenient'. From an outsider's point of view, the union _was_ convenient; Sherlock was putting an end to the rumours about him and John Watson, while Molly was ensuring she wouldn't be alone and moneyless once her parents were dead. It had taken several weeks, but Martha and Gregory had finally accepted Sherlock's engagement. He obviously hadn't forgotten about his friend, but he didn't seem as miserable anymore, and for them, that was the most important. They didn't suspect that Sherlock's wasn't doing better at all (quite the opposite actually), and that he was merely refusing to feel anything in order not to feel pain.

Sherlock wanted to wear the same suit he had worn at Gregory's wedding, but his aunt heard none of it and had one specially made by Mrs. Westwood. The fitting was blissfully boring; Aunt Martha and Molly kept bringing different fabrics up to Sherlock face to see how well they looked against his skin. They discussed tie colours while Mrs. Westwood measured him, and eventually everything turned to a soft numbing buzzing noise in Sherlock's mind, and his lips curled slightly upwards.

Two weeks into March, while Gregory was tending the store, a package arrived for Sherlock. He took it with him and decided to take it all the way to Sailboat Bay. It was a large parcel, quite heavy and square shaped. Gregory had shaken it slightly, but couldn't guess what was inside. The expeditor hadn't left any hints on the brown wrapping, he – or she – had only written Sherlock's name in a nice and elegant handwriting.

Sherlock opened it while Gregory was still there. He knew who it was from as soon as he saw the handwriting, and he tore off the wrapping almost violently. Inside, there were books: Stories or Fairy Tales from Bygone Eras, One Thousand and One Nights, Notre-Dame of Paris, The Young American Girl and Other Maritime Tales, and obviously, The Three Musketeers. Sherlock picked up the last book, lovingly caressed its leather cover, turned the pages, and smelled them. Two pieces of paper fell from the pages; the first one was the other half of their first conversation, the paper that had been slipped under a door of the manor. The other one only had a few words written on it.

_I forgive you._

"This is fantastic news!" Gregory exclaimed.

"I suppose it is," Sherlock replied absent-mindedly, still stroking the leather bounding the pages together.

"What do you mean, you suppose? It's wonderful! You can be friends again and turn the page. You can explore forests, islands, and bays again. With a chaperon, of course, or Molly's father will kill you, but you two are fine."

Sherlock shook his head and Gregory squinted, trying to see what the problem was.

"If it's because you think Molly will disapprove, I'll make sure Sarah talks to her, I'll tell her what to say."

Gregory couldn't understand his friend's uncertainty, from his point of view the situation was simple: Sherlock missed his meetings with John, John was forgiving him, the meetings would resume, and Sherlock would lose his permanently vacant expression. When Sherlock didn't react, he pushed the matter further.

"Don't you want to see him again?" he asked in a careful, yet disbelieving tone, and Sherlock looked at him as if he had recited a string of profanities.

"Don't be daft, of course I would like to see him again, and it's nothing as futile as proprieties that will keep me away. You didn't see his face when he told me to leave; I destroyed him. I am not putting myself in a position which could result in him being hurt again."

"_You_ are hurt, doesn't it count?" Gregory asked, and Sherlock just shook his head.

Sherlock threw himself into the books as one throws itself in a river, unaware of where the current was taking him. The books were filled with stories of magic, horror, love, treason, genies, monsters, catastrophes, and enchantments. Without John, he would never have guessed such a world existed, built only with paper and words.

With April came an unusually sudden spring, the ice field smashed with an end of the world noise, and two days later, water was running free. The maritime pilots all agreed that you didn't see such a sudden change in seasons more than once every twenty years. For three consecutive Sundays, the priest announced the wedding bans, and on the last Sunday, Gregory was foolishly tempted to get up and declare that Sherlock couldn't get married, that he was carrying a secret that was eating him up from inside. Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – he stayed still, and as always, there weren't any objections.

Two days before the wedding, a dreadful storm beat up the region; a highly unusual winter jolt in early May. Tree branches were cut off, cedar posts flew off, and no man – no matter how strong – could walk straight. The icy wind deviated everyone from his or her trajectory, it was breaking, folding, and crushing in an attempt to assert its power, establish its law. Then, the sky was split open in a loud crackling of cold and hail. The wind got even stronger; an unsatisfied and raging creature determined to destroy everything in its wake. Sherlock lay in his bed with the skull; he couldn't sleep. The wind was whistling between the house's beams, making the shingles creak and the windows shake. With every howling of the wind, he thought he could hear John moaning as if he were being crushed by an immense sorrow. He knew he was being unreasonable, that the moans were all the wind's doing, but with every new groan he felt his entrails twisting painfully. When he finally fell asleep, the sun was rising.

The next night was even worse. Not because of the weather, the sky had cleared during the day, but because of the dream from which he woke up screaming and with his heart pounding. He had dreamed that John was curled up on the ground of the Fairy Cave. There were tiny black letters and eider feathers floating all around him.

With restless eyes and his whole body shaken by a fever, John was dying.

Martha had heard Sherlock scream as he had woken up, but something told her to stay put and not interfere. As she heard him get out of bed and leave the house, she had the strange feeling a new page of history was being written, and she didn't want to change its course. She closed her eyes and prayed that whatever Sherlock had gone out for, he would find.

The moon was still high, and the sea was buried under an extraordinary fog blanket that hid the small islands and the bays. Sherlock knew that somewhere among the meadows, pine trees, and spruces, John was dying. He didn't know how he knew it, but he had never been so sure of anything in his life. He ran to the shore, got in his boat for the first time in many months, and he started rowing, the fog instantly swallowing him. He knew his friend was in danger, and he was prepared to do anything in his power to save him.

It was not an easy crossing; there weren't any landmarks, and the horizon had disappeared behind a fog so milky and thick he kept hitting invisible obstacles. Nonetheless, he rowed as fast as he could, all his dedication and willpower were directed towards his goal. His oars were hitting the water in muffled pangs, and as he made his way towards West Birches Bay, his fervour slowly turned into anger. He was angry with Harry for ruining his and John's first kiss, for misinterpreting his intentions, and for paralyzing him with her hateful words.

But mostly, he was angry with himself.

For months, he had accepted the flight of his happiness. Crushed by guilt and shame, he had lost all joy, had believed the small voice in his head telling him he deserved what had happened to him and the resulting pain. He was guilty of closing his eyes when faced with John's ravaged features, guilty of the love he had inspired, and guilty of breaking John's heart. Staying away from John had been excruciatingly painful, but it was for the best, for John's protection.

Perhaps it was the warm blowing of the wind, the cries of the gulls, or the scrap of light in the hazy sky, but despite his anger, his anguish, and the horrible memory of the dream, Sherlock felt something growing inside him, something sweet and wonderful. With each pounding of the oars on the water, he felt some of the heavy weight inside his chest being lifted. He felt better than he had felt since he had gotten out of the library. He couldn't quite put his finger on what the feeling was, and he couldn't name it, but he basked in it while rowing faster than if his life had depended on it. It was John's life that was at stake, and it was infinitely more precious.

When his boat finally hit the shore, he was almost overwhelmed with memories of John. He could almost see the flapping scarf tied to the tree on West Birches Bay and the bird of prey perched on John's arm, and hear the wings of the cormorant as it finally took flight, the joyful cries of the playing seals, and the bouncing dolphins. He needed to find John, but he didn't know where to look for him, so he decided to start with the island where John had once felt comfortable enough to remove his mask.

The hut on Lover's Island was empty, and John's mask wasn't on the table. Despite his promise never to come back here without John, Sherlock wasn't ashamed to be there; the joy blooming inside his chest assured him that he had all the rights. He didn't lose any time on the island once he realized his friend wasn't there; he went back to West Birches Bay and was about to choose the path going to the Fairy Cave when he saw a silhouette approaching. Suddenly, he could barely breathe.

It was Harry Watson, standing among tall herbs and surrounded by fog while seemingly waiting for him. He walked up to the woman who had petrified him with only the power of her words, rendering him speechless and vulnerable. He stood in front of her, so tall he towered over her, and he challenged her with burning eyes. He wasn't shaking, he wasn't petrified, and the certainty inhabiting him had rendered him invincible.

"I have been waiting for you for a long time, I almost sent someone to get you," Harry said as she hurried towards the manor, Sherlock following.

He was writing a new book, a story so beautiful it would one day belong on the shelves in John's library. He was about to see John for the first time in months, and his heart was beating extremely fast in his chest. He knew exactly what he wanted to do and what he wanted to say, and knowing that made him feel better than he had since he had left John's library.

He loved John. What a brilliant discovery.

Upon entering the manor, he turned to face Harry. "You were wrong," he said, "I love your brother, with or without mask. I want him with me, always. Alive.

He had almost been asphyxiated by this secret, almost been swallowed by the tumult of sensations. All it took was the realisation that he loved John, and everything fell back into place. There was no more confusion, no more anger, and no more sadness. He didn't feel guilty anymore, and there were no traces of the shame Harry had inspired in him. He loved John, had loved him for a while, but hadn't recognized the feeling. John had loved him for who he was, he had never tried changing him, but he had made him better nonetheless by showing him the world through his eyes. He wanted to do the same for John, he wanted to love him for who he was, to make him feel better, and never to leave his side. He crossed the maze of corridors and doors until he reached the small library, and after taking one deep breath, he opened the door.

John was curled up on the cushions in his library, clutching Sherlock's great grey coat to his chest. Sweat was sticking to his hair and temples; it was dampening his forehead and hemming the edges of the leather mask. Sherlock closed the door behind the two of them and kneeled beside his friend. He took one of John's hands in his, the same hand John had used to press Sherlock's palm against the books, the hand he had stroked Sherlock's hair with, the hand that had caressed his neck. Slowly, Sherlock brought that hand to his lips and kissed the palm. John's fingers were incredibly cold, and suddenly, Sherlock was terrified.

He leaned in closer to John's face, looked into his immense eyes, and dove into them, looking for a twinkle, a spark, any evidence that would have told him his friend was aware of his presence. John's eyes had never looked so extinct, a gritty sound was escaping his lungs, his damp shirt was sticking to his chest, and the fabric of his trousers was plastered to his thighs.

Sherlock wanted to speak, but words got stuck in his throat, choking him. A wave of panic rushed over him, but he took a few deep breaths, refusing to let himself be swallowed by the feeling. With a delicate hand, he pushed John's shoulder back until he was lying flat on his back. Then, gently, he caressed the fine leather of the mask and slid his fingers through John's hair until he could untie the cords of the mask. With tenderness he didn't know he possessed, he let the leather slide to the floor, revealing John's ravaged face.

Without haste, without fear, he explored every fold, every crater, every scratch, and every bite. He did it again and again, his fingers growing more confident as they slid over John's cheeks, stopped for a while on the corner of his mouth before moving to his nose. Once again, he searched the eyes of the man he loved so much, and it seemed there was a very small trembling glimmer in one of his blue eyes. Sherlock's lips replaced his fingers, and he kissed every particle of flesh and every horrible scar.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered in his deep rumbling voice. "I love you, and I will never leave you again. We will come up with other treasure hunts, and travel together in all the books of the world. I want your dreams to become my dreams, I want…."

He was scared to continue. John should have moved by now, he should have grabbed his hand or kissed him back, that's what the heroes of John's stories did. He had read about it in The Young American Girl and Other Maritime Tales: Once Belle had declared her love for The Beast, he had come back to her. John should have done the same thing, there had to be a reason why he had included this story in the package he had sent. Sherlock refused to see his desires fail.

"I want you to love me," he whispered directly into his friend's ear, "with your eyes, your lips, your hands…. With your whole body."

There was only silence. It felt as if the passionate lovers, the kings, the goblins, and the mermaids living in the books were waiting with Sherlock, watching this story unfurl.

"I love you," John suddenly murmured so quietly Sherlock almost missed it, and his eyelids shuttered closed, crushed by the weight of a formidable fatigue.

His face was as pale as a winter moon; it was too late. Sherlock understood that John had let himself die of sorrow; he barely had enough strength to breathe. The glimmer in his eyes had been an illusion. He was leaving him. Sherlock felt a surge of sadness crash through his body, and, for a long moment, he didn't move, eyeing his friend intently until suddenly, like the herons driven by a secret signal, he stood up and hurried out.

He had known a young, healthy, and strong man. To waste away so much, he had probably followed the example of the female eiders stuck in their nests. However, John had taught him how to save the birds that were too weak to run back to the water.

John Watson would live. It wasn't too late. Sherlock would fight for him. For both of them.

:::

We've reached an important part of the story; it's time for you to choose how I will end this. No matter what option will win, the outcome of the story will stay the same; you are not choosing between two endings, but deciding how we'll get there. Your two options are:

1. The short way (most likely two more chapters after this one).

2. The longer (schmoopier, fluffier, slightly more adult) way.

If you have an opinion, please feel free to let me know in the comments or by messaging me.


	19. Chapter 19

I want to than every single one of you who took the time to voice your opinion regarding the end of this story. The response was overwhelming; I knew some of you read it, but I had no idea so many of you did, and getting your responses throughout the week has been fantastic. I'm sorry I haven't been responding to comments individually recently, but I'm juggling three WIPs and it's taking a bit too much of my time. I'm extremely glad some of you gave this story a chance and decided to embark on that long adventure with me, I'm glad you're still here, thank you so much, you're all amazing.

* * *

><p>Sherlock ran out of the manor, ignoring Harry who called out after him to ask where he was going. The sun was higher than it had been when he had made his way over to West Birches Bay and the fog was starting to dissipate, but the air was still heavy and eerie. Sherlock didn't waste any time; he ran to the beach, knelt in the water, and started digging up clams like he and John had done while taking care of the dying eiders. He filled his pockets and took as much as he could carry in his arms before returning to the manor.<p>

Upon entering, he called for Harry Watson who appeared almost immediately.

"I'm taking care of him now," Sherlock said domineeringly, "I expect you to do as I say without questions."

Harry nodded, and Sherlock smirked in satisfaction. Harry and the best doctors of the region had tried healing John without success, but he didn't doubt that what John needed right now was him.

"Good," he said as he dropped the clams into Harry's arm, "I need these opened and cooked in whichever way John likes best. I also need tea, fresh water, and cotton cloths. Meet me in the library."

Without waiting for an answer, he stormed off towards the small library. John was still lying on his back; he hadn't moved since Sherlock had left, and his eyes were closed. Sitting beside him, Sherlock cradled John's head in his lap and started affectionately stroking his hair.

"You're not dying, John. Not before I say you can."

There was a knock, and the door opened to reveal Harry. She was carrying a tray with a big bowl of fresh water, several dry cloths, a steaming teapot, and a teacup. Standing in the doorway, she looked almost shy.

"The cook is working on the clams, but I brought you water and tea," she said, and Sherlock gestured for her to leave the tray on the floor beside him.

"I want you to know that if there is anything you need, anything I can do, please call for me. There is a servant standing outside the door in case you need anything."

Sherlock nodded, but he barely looked at her. He concentrated on dipping the cloth into the cool water and squeezing off the excess. Meanwhile, Harry quietly left the room, closing the door behind her before presumably heading back to the kitchen to see how the cook was doing with the clams. Sherlock pushed all thoughts of Harry out of his mind, and he pressed the wet cloth to John's burning forehead. John flinched at the contrast in temperatures, and Sherlock tried to shush him comfortingly.

"I know it's cold, but it's good for you," Sherlock said as he dabbed John's face with the cloth.

He dipped it in water once more before moving on to his friend's neck. John let out a moan, and Sherlock continued to murmur soothing words and encouragements until there was a knock on the door again. It was Harry with another tray.

"Clam chowder," she announced, "he hasn't eaten in _days_, so it will be a victory if you manage to make him take just a few mouthfuls. There is well enough for two, and there is some bread and butter in case you want some. It's delicious with the chowder."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment, and Harry set the tray down beside the other one before hastily leaving the room. Once he and John were alone again, Sherlock switched their positions. He sat down with his back against one of the book walls, and he dragged John up until he was half sitting and half leaning on his torso. He was so weak, moving him was as easy as moving a ragdoll.

"Now John, you're going to eat, even if I have to force this chowder down your throat."

Not knowing what to expect, Sherlock raised the spoon to John's mouth, but his lips remained firmly closed.

"Come on, my little eider, you need to eat," he said in a tone he had hoped would be playful, but that ended up sounding slightly distressed.

Unfortunately, his words had no effect. The chowder smelled very good, though, and Sherlock could feel his stomach rumbling, so he ate a few mouthfuls, and as predicted, it was delicious. John's head rolled to the side, and he looked up at Sherlock with what almost looked like a smile on his lips. Sherlock looked at John and ran an uncommonly gentle hand on his cheek.

"Now you want some?" he murmured in John's ear, and his chest filled with hope when he filled the spoon.

He raised the spoon to John's lip again, and this time, John opened his mouth and ate a mouthful. Then another, and another. Sherlock stomach filled with butterflies, and he felt the sudden urge to laugh in relief. Instead, he kissed John's right cheek while caressing his left one.

"I'm so proud of you, you're doing so good," Sherlock whispered, but when he lifted the full spoon again, John refused to eat.

Struck with an idea, Sherlock ate several mouthfuls, and when he presented the spoon to John again, he accepted the offered food. Thinking back about the eiders, Sherlock remembered how they had made the weak ducks drink some water, and, using one hand, he poured some tea into the cup. He drank the first sip to test the temperature, and he offered John the cup. When he drank a few sips, Sherlock was delighted.

"You're wonderful," Sherlock said, still stroking John's cheek.

John was still limp against him, his eyes were closed, and his skin was still hot and covered in sweat, but his breathing wasn't as laboured as it had been before, and Sherlock considered it a personal victory. In the following hour, he continued to feed tea and chowder to John who only accepted to drink and eat when Sherlock did so first. Sherlock only stopped once in a while to cool John's skin with a damp cloth or to plant gentle kisses to his temple.

Soon after John had swallowed the last mouthful, Sherlock felt John's breathing even out; he was asleep on his shoulder. Sherlock continued to cool his skin down while whispering loving, soothing words in his ear until Harry knocked on the door. When Sherlock invited her inside, her eyes immediately went to the empty bowl on the tray.

"Did he eat some of that?" she asked expectantly.

"Half of it," Sherlock answered, and although he had promised himself not to be agreeable to Harry, he couldn't help the small smile that pulled his lips upwards.

Harry closed her eyes for a few seconds, and she sighed in relief.

"Oh thank you, thank you so much," she said.

"He still has a fever, but his breathing has improved. He fell asleep a few minutes ago, but I would like to move him to his bed so he will be more comfortable."

"I can carry him," she offered as she stepped inside the library.

"No, I'll do it."

Sherlock slid a hand under John's arms and the other one under his knees, and he stood up carefully while keeping John close to his chest. With all the weight he had lost, John wasn't that difficult to carry, and he didn't even wake up when Sherlock stumbled a little. Sherlock shot one last glance around the room as John snuggled up against him while muttering incoherently, and he spotted his violin case.

"Bring my violin and my coat," Sherlock told Harry, and he waited until she had gathered the two items before following her out of the room, into a few corridors, up the stairs, and finally, into John's bedroom.

The room, like every room in the manor, was exceptionally spacious and had enormous windows. The bed was so large it could have comfortably fit five people, and it was covered with a very plush looking duvet. Harry put the violin and the coat on the bed before opening the covers. Delicately, Sherlock laid John down on the bed, pushing the duvet away as not to overheat him.

"I need more cold water," he told Harry, and she nodded.

"Is it true, then? You love him?" she asked.

"I do," Sherlock said defiantly.

He didn't feel the need to add anything more; he felt better about John's sister now that she wasn't hysterically screaming at him, but he was still wary, and he was determined not to let her dictate his conduct anymore. Harry looked at him for a moment during which Sherlock refused to break eye contact, and it was Harry who finally looked away.

"I'll send a servant with the water. He will stay in the corridor in case you need anything," she said, and with one last awkward glance, she was gone.

After the servant had brought the fresh water bowl, Sherlock settled on the bed beside John. Slowly, very gently as not to wake him up, he started running the cold cloth all over John's face and neck. Although John was sleeping and couldn't hear him, Sherlock felt the urge to talk, and he did so while running a hand through John's hair.

"You'll come back, John. I know you will. Right now you need some sleep to fight the fever, but I'm waiting for you. I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, and if his voice broke a little on the last syllable, there was no one to hear.

"I'm going to take your shirt off now, I need to cool your skin to help you fight the fever," he said as he carefully manoeuvred John's arms and head through his shirt's holes.

Sherlock didn't want to stare, he genuinely didn't want to, but John's skin was glistening with sweat and so _close_. With slightly trembling hands, Sherlock wet the cloth in cold water again, and he started rubbing it on John's torso, often dipping it back in water when it became too warm.

Sherlock only stopped once John's skin seemed a little colder to the touch. Then, he kissed John's forehead, whispered, "I'm not going anywhere" in his ear, and he lay down beside him with a hand over his heart to feel its beating, feel that John was alive. He must have dozed off at some point, because the sound of someone knocking on the door startled him awake. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, but when he did, he immediately concentrated on John's steady heartbeat, and he sighed in relief when he felt it, strong and steady under his hand. Then, he hurriedly got off the bed and invited whoever was outside to enter. It was John's sister.

"How is he doing?" she asked.

"He's still sleeping, but I think his temperature has dropped a little bit."

"That's good news," she said while looking at her brother's sleeping form. "I know it's none of my business, but I think you're supposed to get married in less than two hours."

Sherlock's eyes widened; he had forgotten all about Molly Hooper and the wedding. It seemed ludicrous now that he was inches away from the man he loved. There wasn't a hint of doubt in his mind; he couldn't marry Molly, and he had no desire for numbness and boredom anymore. There was no way he could recite those vows, no way he could dance with Molly, and once the reception was over…the wedding night…. He almost shuddered in disgust; this had been his worst idea ever.

"I'm not getting married," he told Harry, and it was the truth; he didn't care about the consequences, didn't care about the sadness and disappointment he would cause, he wasn't getting married.

"I can't…. I'm not leaving John," he added, and Harry nodded.

"Stay with him, I'll take care of it," she said, and a moment later she was gone.

Sherlock quickly went back to bed, and he saw that John was awake and looking up at him questioningly. Sherlock pressed his hand to John's forehead, cheeks, and neck to feel his temperature, and he was pleased to see that he wasn't as hot as he had been earlier.

"Go to sleep, I love you," Sherlock said, and John's eyes fluttered shut.

A few minutes later, he was asleep again. This time, Sherlock didn't let himself drift into a lazy slumber, he remained in a sitting position and listened to his friend's breathing for a few hours, occasionally carding his fingers through John's hair when he became agitated, and the gentle gesture was enough to calm him down.

:::

For four days, John didn't talk. His temperature kept rising and dropping in random cycles, and most of the time, he was asleep. When he wasn't, he was looking at Sherlock with big, pleading eyes, and Sherlock, unsure of what John needed, kept whispering loving words while softly caressing his face. Sherlock very rarely left his side, only going out of the room when the nurse Harry had hired needed to tend to John's needs. On one of those occasions, while he was pacing in the corridor outside John's room, Harry came to see him.

"Did you…?" he trailed off while gesturing, but Harry knew exactly what he was talking about.

"I went to your aunt's house and ran into Moran and Moriarty who were also on their way to see her. None of them seemed surprised when I said where you were and that you wouldn't be getting married. They said they would handle everything."

"Thank you," he said.

"Your aunt wants to see you as soon as possible, but I said it was unlikely I would ever convince you to leave John's bedside. She understood, and I told her I would keep her informed," Harry said, looking almost embarrassed.

"Thank you," Sherlock said once more, because there wasn't anything else to say. Harry didn't leave, though, she stayed in front of Sherlock and fidgeted; it was obvious there was something else she wanted to say.

"Maybe when John is better…if you want to…if John wants to…well, I was thinking, maybe you could ask her to visit."

The last part was said extremely quickly, as if the whole sentence had only been composed of one long word. It was clear she wasn't used to making that kind of invitation.

"We'll see," he said as the nurse came out of John's bedroom.

Immediately, Sherlock excused himself and hurried inside the room. He sat on the bed to resume his watchful guard, and John once again looked at him with eyes so sad it almost hurt to look back. Sherlock ran a soothing hand through John's tousled hair, and he tried to offer a reassuring smile.

"I wish I knew what's making you so sad," he said as John closed his eyes and fell asleep again, Sherlock watching over him.

:::

Eventually, John woke up again, and when he tried to talk, only a croaking sound came out, so Sherlock hurried out of the room, and as always, a servant was waiting outside. He asked him for a pot of tea and a glass of water before going back to John. He ordered him not to talk, and John smiled weakly. When the servant came back, John was feebly lifting himself up on one elbow. Sherlock offered him the two beverages, and when John pointed at the glass of water, Sherlock held it up to his lips so he could take several large gulps. When he was done, John let himself fall back onto the pillows with a small groan. Sherlock crawled back into bed after putting the half-empty glass of water on the bedside table, and he sat down, facing John.

"Can you talk?" he asked softly.

"Yes," John said, and something in his voice didn't seem quite right, but at least he was talking. He must have realized something was wrong because he raised a hand to his face and frowned.

"My mask?" he asked, and there was a hint of panic in his voice.

Sherlock shushed him, grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his face.

"You don't need it, not with me," he said, and John shivered.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded.

Instead of pulling the duvet up, Sherlock grabbed his long coat that was still on the foot of the bed, and he covered John with it, tucking it in firmly under his sides. John smiled, but it was a sad smile.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock inquired.

"Rotten and exhausted. But I don't think I can go back to sleep, I have never slept that much in my entire life," he answered while grimacing.

Sherlock kissed John's forehead, got off the bed, and grabbed his violin. The instrument felt smooth and comfortable in his hands; it was pleasant to hold it again after those six long and painful months. After a few random strokes of the bow against the strings to get a feel of the instrument, he chose a piece by Chopin, and he let the slow, languorous notes lull John back to sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

The next day, John woke up again, and as soon as he opened his eyes, Sherlock instantly knew John felt better. There was a glimmer there that hadn't been there before, and although his skin was slightly warmer than skin ought to be, that might have been the heavy coat's fault. Sherlock had spent the night in the bed, sitting beside John and keeping watch over his breathing, and he smiled brightly when John looked up at him. John smiled back, and Sherlock sighed with relief when he didn't see any trace of the gloom that had clouded John's eyes in the past days.

"You're here, you're actually here" John whispered.

"Of course I'm here, where else would I be?" Sherlock answered.

"I kept waking up and seeing you. I thought I was dreaming; I always dream of you."

"Did you sleep enough? Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked, concerned, and John smiled fondly.

"I slept enough for the upcoming month, but I am a little hungry."

"I'll get you some food. I'm sure your sister will want to talk to you now that you're better," he said while getting off the bed and straightening his clothes.

"I don't want to see her yet. Tomorrow," John said, and Sherlock nodded before leaving the room.

There was still a servant waiting outside, and he was in deep conversation with Harry. When Sherlock closed the door, both turned to look at the source of the noise.

"How is he?" Harry asked.

"He's better. He slept almost non-stop since we last talked, but he just woke up and he's hungry."

"That's good, that's very good. Can I see him?"

"Not yet," Sherlock answered, "he wants you to wait until tomorrow."

For a moment, she seemed as though she was about to object, to demand to see John, but she swallowed and the moment was gone. Instead, she smiled awkwardly and left to request John's food. Sherlock quickly got back into the room where John was now sitting in the middle of the bed, his back resting against a small mountain of pillows.

Eventually, a servant knocked on the door, and Sherlock picked up the tray. Other than tea and two plates of a delicious smelling chicken dish, there was also John's mask. Sherlock had no desire to remind John of his mask; he rather enjoyed seeing John's face, it made him feel as though they were sharing a secret. He put the mask on the bedside table before handing John the tray.

"Aren't you going to eat?" John asked.

"I'm good; I ate yesterday," Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock! You have to eat! I am not taking one bite until you do."

"Are you always so authoritarian, or is it just when you're ill?" Sherlock asked fondly as he crawled into bed beside John.

They ate in comfortable silence, their arms often touching while they manipulated their utensils. When Sherlock stopped eating for too long, John shot him a menacing glare until he sighed and took a bite. Once their two plates were empty, they drank their tea and Sherlock returned the empty tray to the servant waiting outside. Now that John was doing better, Sherlock felt the servant's constant presence by the door was no longer necessary, so he told him to leave; if John ever needed anything, Sherlock was perfectly capable of going downstairs.

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock hurried to the bed and sat beside John who snuggled up against his chest. Sherlock draped an arm around him, enjoying the feeling of the warm, naked skin under his fingertips. He would have been content just to sit there and run his fingers on John's bicep, but there were a hundred unanswered questions between them, and many things they needed to discuss.

"What happened?" Sherlock eventually asked, still gently stroking John's arm.

He didn't get an answer right away, but he knew John had heard, and he understood that he was trying to find the right words, the words that would properly convey everything he had endured during the six months they had spent apart. Sherlock knew this wasn't an easy task; he still couldn't really describe the tumult of unpleasant emotions that his life without John had been.

"At first, I was angry," John began, and Sherlock tightened his hold.

"When you saw my face and couldn't look, when you closed your eyes and looked away, I was so angry I wanted to tear your face off so you would see what it was like for me. I was furious for so long, and Harry was fuelling it; she told me our friendship had been a lie, that you had seduced me for my money, that you wanted nothing to do with me."

Sherlock's first reflex was to close his eyes; John's words brought back waves of the shame and disgust he had felt after the events at the manor. However, he fought to keep them open; he never wanted John to think he was disgusted with him ever again.

"Then, there wasn't any anger left, just sadness. I fell ill, but there didn't seem to be anything wrong with me; I just kept getting weaker and weaker. Eventually, I was too feeble to be sad, I didn't care about your reaction; I just wanted to see you again, so I sent the books, hoping you would come back, but you didn't—"

"I couldn't," Sherlock interrupted, "I had hurt you, I didn't want to do it again."

"One day, Harry came home and announced that you were getting married. I started getting even worse, and I didn't care anymore. Harry was extremely worried; I think she forgot to drink. I had never seen her like that, she just begged me to fight for my life, said I was all she had left, but I didn't care about that either."

"She was waiting for me when I arrived, said it had taken me long enough, and that she had been about to come and get me," Sherlock said.

"I suppose she was desperate by that point," John replied, and he stayed silent for a long time, basking in the feeling of Sherlock's arm around him, enjoying the warmth and closeness that had haunted his dreams for the last months. Eventually, he had to ask the question that was burning his tongue.

"Were you really engaged?"

"The day I arrived here was supposed to be my wedding day," Sherlock answered, and he couldn't hide the disgust in his voice.

"Why?" John asked, frowning; he couldn't understand the motives behind that obviously bad decision.

"When I realized how hurt you were because of me, when it hit me that I would have to spend the rest of my life without you and deal with the guilt I felt, I wanted to die. I couldn't stop thinking about you, but I couldn't go to you lest I hurt you again. The only times I felt peaceful were when my brain was buzzing with boredom. I became numb; it felt wonderful. By getting married, I was gaining access to an endless boredom source."

John was horrified.

"But there was a woman involved! You may have broken her heart!"

"I wasn't thinking about that," Sherlock said defensively, kissing John's hair, "I was only thinking of you," he added, and as much as John wanted to be cross with him, to make him understand how badly he had behaved, he couldn't muster the strength; there had been enough anger in his heart recently.

"You are most definitely the worst husband in the entire world," John said, and Sherlock agreed with a low humming sound, his face still buried in John's hair.

That's how it had all started back in December in the library, with Sherlock smelling John's hair. The realisation hit them both at the same time, and John's ears turned bright red when he thought about what had followed. His life wasn't in danger anymore, and the months they had spent apart had done nothing to quell the desire they had felt for each other that afternoon. For a while, they remained silent, lost in thoughts of each other, until John spoke again.

"I really need a bath; I feel filthy, and I'm sure I smell like fever." 

"No you don't," Sherlock lied, and John laughed.

Sherlock didn't need much convincing; he quickly went downstairs and asked a servant to draw John a bath. While he did so, Sherlock worked on locating flannels, soap, and towels, and he made sure everything was at arm's reach from the tub. Once the tub was full of hot water, the servant returned downstairs and Sherlock went to the bedroom to help John out of bed. He was still weak and a little shaky, so Sherlock slid an arm around his waist to support some of his weight.

Together, they reached the bathroom where, leaning against Sherlock's offered arm, John shakily unbuttoned and removed his trousers so he was standing in only his knee-length drawers. Sherlock blushed and averted his eyes while still offering the support of his arm, and John, also blushing a fiery shade of red, slid them down his legs until he could toe them off. When he was fully naked, he entered the tub where he leaned against the side and closed his eyes, shaking with the effort it had taken to get there.

"You need some clean clothes, can you refrain from drowning while I fetch some?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded, eyes still closed as he grabbed a flannel and the bar of soap.

Sherlock returned to John's bedroom, and he started rummaging through the cabinet, looking for something comfortable John could wear. It felt strange to be touching John's clothes while he wasn't wearing them, somehow it seemed like a very intimate act. Finally, Sherlock found what he thought was the most comfortable option: an uncommonly soft white nightshirt and a pair of underwear similar to those he had been wearing before, also white.

With the garments carefully folded in his arms, he went back to the bathroom where John was finishing to scrub his legs, his torso bent in such a way that when Sherlock's gaze inadvertently slid downward, he couldn't see anything. Realizing what he had just done, Sherlock blushed and averted his eyes to study the floral pattern in the closed drapes. A splashing sound caught his attention, and he looked around to see that John had his head under water.

"I haven't washed my hair in a very, _very_ long time," John explained as he resurfaced and grabbed the bar of soap.

Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and took the soap from John's hands before rubbing it delicately all over John's scalp. It was more a massage than a grooming act, and John was thoroughly enjoying it; his eyes were closed, and soft moans sometimes escaped his parted lips, sending a rush of blood directly to Sherlock's groin. In order not to get distracted, Sherlock focused on the movement of his fingers until every single inch of John's scalp had been scrubbed repeatedly. When it was time for John to get out of the tub, Sherlock once again offered his arm for support, and he unfolded the biggest linen bath towel he had found, wrapping it around John's shoulders.

"Thank you," John said as Sherlock vigorously rubbed his arms to accelerate the drying process and keep him warm.

Once John wasn't soaking wet anymore, he shakily put on the underwear and nightshirt Sherlock had picked out for him. They slowly made their way to the bedroom where John let himself fall into bed, pulling Sherlock along with him. Their legs ended up tangled, with Sherlock looming over John and looking down at his mischievous grin. Sherlock arched an eyebrow questioningly.

"You take such good care of me," John said.

"I want you to get better," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"I am better. But you know, I'm a doctor, and I know a few things that could considerably accelerate my recovering."

Sherlock was listening attentively; he had been so scared to lose John that even if he was looking well, he was prepared to acquiesce to any of his reasonable demands (and perhaps a few unreasonable ones too).

"What is it?" he asked eagerly.

John didn't say anything, but his grin grew wider and one of his hands snaked up to rest on Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes, trying to find evidence of what he hoped John meant. When he didn't see any sign of rejection, he lowered his head and tentatively pressed his lips to John's forehead. John closed his eyes and sighed, content. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, Sherlock kissed John's right cheek, and then his left one, his lips barely brushing against John's. John's breath hitched, but it soon evened out as he relaxed under Sherlock's gentle touch.

Next, Sherlock moved to John's neck; he clearly remembered the effect it had had on him the last time, and he was eager to see whether it would be similar. He nuzzled John's neck, inhaling deeply and comparing the scents to the ones he had catalogued a few months ago. There was a lot more soap, but the smell of John could still be detected underneath. In order to ascertain whether there had been a change of taste, he pressed his open mouth to John's neck and sucked very lightly before letting his tongue out. He hummed appreciatively; John tasted just as good as last time. John shivered as Sherlock's tongue slide over his sensitive neck, and when Sherlock licked over his Adam's apple, he let out an extraordinarily loud moan.

"Be quiet," Sherlock whispered, "your sister seems to like me better now, but she'll shoot me if she finds us in this position."

"There's a lock on the door," John said invitingly, and Sherlock jumped off the bed with the grace of a feline. He opened the door a few inches to make sure Harry hadn't sent the servant back, but the corridor was empty, and after locking the door, he ran back to the enormous bed and threw himself onto it to resume their former position.

Immediately, he reattached his lips to John's neck and alternated between kisses, flicks of tongue, and soft grazes of teeth. John was squirming under him, twisting his head into the pillow to expose more skin, and Sherlock obliged him by continuing his thorough exploration of every parcel of skin his mouth could reach. When he felt he had completed the analysis of John's neck and throat, Sherlock moved to the collarbones, letting his teeth trail gently over the prominent bones. John arched his back and the moan that escaped his lips was even louder than before.

"Seriously John, be quiet. I'm just getting started, and even if you sister can't barge in on us, it doesn't mean I want her to hear and interrupt in some way or other," he said between kisses.

"I'll try – oh, Sherlock, yes don't stop – to stay quiet," John panted.

Sherlock lifted his head to flash him a predatory before he resumed his scrutiny, this time attacking the parcel of skin exposed by the nightshirt's unbuttoned collar. A small patch of golden brown hair was visible, and Sherlock rubbed his cheek against it before letting his mouth loose on the new territory. The myriad of new tastes, scents, and textures was intoxicating; he had only discovered a fragment of John's body, and already he had more landscapes than Sainte-Cécile.

Sherlock was so caught up in his observations that he barely noticed John sliding his suspenders down his shoulders, but he did notice when John started unbuttoning his shirt, his fingertips lightly brushing his chest in the process. Just those small touches were enough to increase Sherlock's heartbeat, and when all the buttons were undone, he hurriedly took it off to offer John's inquisitive hands more skin to caress. When John finally put his hands on Sherlock's hips and started stroking the exposed skin, he decided to follow his lead, and he slid a hand under John's nightshirt to ruck it up as far as it would go.

"This nightshirt needs to come off, John," Sherlock whispered directly into his ear before kneeling back and giving John enough room to remove the garment and throw it away from the bed.

He had seen John's chest before, but it looked different now that his life wasn't in danger anymore, and he took a moment to truly look at it and appreciate it. As John resumed his caresses on Sherlock's slim torso, Sherlock leaned down again, and he kissed the hollow of John's throat before making his way downward. He liked the way John's sparse chest hair tickled his cheek when he rubbed his face against it, but not as much as he liked the low groan John made when he blew on a nipple. Inspired by the way the small bud reacted, he flicked his tongue over it, and the sound John made was exceptionally indecent. Sherlock felt his cock twitch for attention, but he ignored it; he had all night.

He sucked, licked, and bit softly until John was so loud that anyone passing the closed door in the corridor would have known exactly what they were doing. When he stopped, John clawed at his back and whimpered, which made Sherlock chuckle as he continued to move downward, using his lips, tongue, and teeth while registering what made John squirm, pant, groan, or moan. When he reached John's undergarment, Sherlock was faced with John's obvious arousal, and suddenly he felt several degrees warmer. Tentatively, he rubbed his cheek against the bulge in John's drawers, and he felt John burying his fingers in his curls.

"Sherlock! Stop, stop, please stop!" John cried.

Sherlock obliged, and fearing he had done something wrong, he looked up and saw that John's head was thrown back, his mouth opened, and his eyes squeezed shut; he was either in pain, or experiencing sheer pleasure. Sherlock hoped it was the latter.

"If you don't want…this…to be over, please ignore this particular area," John said, panting.

Pleased that he had been the one to reduce John to such a state, Sherlock smiled as he moved up again. Looking down at John's flushed face and parted lips, he realized they hadn't kissed, not since the library. That was unacceptable. John noticed him staring at his mouth, and he chuckled.

"Finally! You spent so much time exploring my torso, I was wondering why my mouth was being neglected," he said.

"Maybe because I enjoyed the beautiful sounds you made with it," Sherlock suggested before he leaned down to gently suck on John's Adam's apple, which made him gasp and moan, as predicted.

Sherlock swallowed the sound with his mouth, and at first it felt a little awkward, but then they both shifted and suddenly the angle was right, and so was everything else. It was exactly as it had been six months ago in the library, but infinitely better. There wasn't any fear that this was their last meeting, and even if Sherlock kept unconsciously bracing himself for Harry's interruption, it never came, and the realization that she wouldn't barge in through the door was exquisite.

John's lips were a little chafed from the dehydration he had put his body through, but they were warm and eager, and when the tip of his tongue touched Sherlock's lower lip, it was his turn to moan, and he felt John smile against his lips. Tentatively, Sherlock's tongue approached John's, and both met in the middle where they softly stroked each other. Sherlock was so engrossed in the kiss he didn't feel John's hand sliding down his back and into his drawers until he was stroking one firm buttock. Sherlock broke the kiss when his mouth opened in surprise, and he moaned against his will. It didn't make sense; his buttocks were stimulated every day (chair, bed, rock, grass, sand…) and never had anything felt that pleasurable before. Luckily, or sitting down would have been extremely awkward. John laughed at Sherlock's reaction, and he used his other hand to trace Sherlock's lips.

"Your mouth is shaped like a heart when you make that face," he stated, smiling.

Sherlock's only response was to kiss John again while pushing back to seek more contact with the hand in his undergarment. John obliged, still surprised by how plush and well-defined Sherlock's bum was. The fact that he was the one to discover that well-kept secret, that he was the one allowed to touch Sherlock in that way, fuelled his arousal, and the kiss that had been hesitant at first became more heated as John's desire grew even stronger. Sherlock followed John's lead, and soon they were devouring each other's mouths with intent and passion.

John, in an attempt to be even closer, used the hand stroking Sherlock's ass to close the gap between them, and time stopped when their bodies aligned. John's erection was pressed against Sherlock's hip, and he could clearly feel Sherlock's arousal against his thigh. Both men moaned, but they didn't break the kiss. Following his instincts, Sherlock shifted a little upward until their crotches were parallel, and suddenly it felt even better. Sherlock started thrusting slowly against John who was guiding the movement with his hand, and they both pressed harder, seeking more friction.

At first, it was easy to keep a slow rhythm, to ignore the voice saying _harder, faster_ in their heads, and to bask in the delightful burning sensation in their thighs, the throbbing in their groins, and their accelerated matching heartbeats. However, the more they thrust, the more their need grew. The pillow in which Sherlock had buried his face was muffling his loud moans, and John was biting Sherlock's neck in order not to be too vocal.

"Sherlock," John panted, "I'm sure this would feel even better without clothes," he added, but he made no attempt to resolve the situation.

Sherlock was instantly sold on the idea; he wanted to feel more of John's skin against his, wanted to know whether John's cock was as hot as his own felt, but he kept thinking _one more thrust, just one more,_ and he couldn't bring himself to break the contact. The pleasure was almost unbearable, his senses were on fire _this is the last one,_ and he needed more, always more. If he could've crawled into John – wonderful, beautiful, moaning his name John – he would have. He could feel his balls tightening _one more thrust and I'll pause,_ and he knew he would not last much longer, neither would John if the tight grip he had on his buttocks was any indication.

A terribly annoying voice in the back of Sherlock's head was shouting practicalities, telling him that he didn't have a change of clothes, _true, I just need a little more_, that he would be uncomfortable later if he found release while wearing his drawers _so good,_ and that it would only take a few seconds to take them off. The voice was getting too loud to ignore _five thrusts, that's all I need, five thrusts and I stop,_ and, gritting his teeth, he slowed their frantic rutting to thrust hard – very hard and excruciatingly slowly – five more times before pulling his hips away from John. He was panting, the fight against the pleasure center of his brain had been a difficult one to win, and John's hips were thrusting up into the air, seeking friction and release.

"Clothes off," Sherlock panted, and a few seconds later, they were both completely naked.

They took a moment to look at their cocks that were inches away from each other, the slight curves of their erect members making them look as though they were trying to meet and touch. Sherlock knew that once they made contact again, it would be over very soon. His cock had never been so hard, nor had it ever leaked that profusely, and his balls had never felt so full. Yet he wanted to prolong the moment. He thought about the Vivaldi piece he had played for John in the library, he thought about the gusts of wind, the anticipation, and nature holding its breath before snow started to fall. He felt exactly like that, suspended in a drumroll leading to…what? He didn't know, but he was eager to find out.

Gritting his teeth and burying his face into the pillow once more, Sherlock lowered his hips until their groins touched, and _oh_ if he had known it would feel like this, he would have undressed them both from the start. In fact, he didn't feel like getting dressed ever again if it meant he could stay in bed with John for the rest of his life. Together, they started moving, sliding hot and silky smooth skin against each other. It should have been painful to push, rub, and thrust so hard, but it wasn't; it felt breathtakingly magnificent.

It didn't take long before John's moans were too loud to be stifled by Sherlock's neck, and he clawed at his back so hard there would most likely be marks. Soon, John's cock was pulsing against Sherlock's and with one last moan, he found release, splattering both their stomachs. It was warm, it was John, and it was sex, that's all it took to bring Sherlock over the edge, making an even bigger mess on their stomachs.

His arms gave out, and he shifted down a little so he was only half sprawled on top of John. For a long time, neither spoke as they tried to catch their breath; their hearts were still pounding hard, and they were giddy with endorphins. John was the first to speak.

"That was amazing," he said, and he could feel Sherlock's low rumble of a laugh deep in his chest.

"Eleventh treasure?" Sherlock asked, and it was John's turn to laugh.

"You're the eleventh treasure," John replied fondly, "now go get a wet flannel or we'll end up stuck together.

Sherlock obliged, and he cleaned them both up. John's now flaccid cock fascinated him, and he would have liked to smell, taste, and touch, but John's eyelids were starting to droop, and he was yawning contentedly; his exploration would have to wait. Instead, he curled up against John who ran a hand through his hair and started delicately stroking his curls. Sherlock closed his eyes too, but he didn't want to sleep; he replayed the last hours repeatedly in his mind, and he listened to John's breathing for long hours into the night.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night; he spent long hours with his head pillowed on John's chest, sometimes tracing lazy shapes on his torso and enjoying how it made John smile and twitch in his sleep. With the heavy curtains covering the windows, Sherlock couldn't determine what time it was or how long John had been asleep, but he didn't care; he was content just to lay there with his head close to John's heart. Not a week had passed since his arrival in the manor to fight for his friend's life, and he already felt accustomed to John's face; his scars were part of him, and he loved every single part of John.

When John woke up, it was to the sight of Sherlock's big, curious eyes fixed upon him. A few minutes before, Sherlock had observed the signs of John waking up, and he was watching the process with interest, staring at his face until he sleepily blinked several times and truly opened his eyes. John chuckled when he saw his friend's gray eyes upon him, and he yawned.

"Well, hello there Mr. Holmes," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"Hmm, hello doctor Watson," Sherlock replied with a smile while sliding a finger down John's chest.

They stared at each other for a long time, both smiling while thinking of how comfortable they felt. It was warm under the heavy duvet, they were together, they were naked, and they were pressed against each other; it was blissfully peaceful.

"Are you going to stand there on ceremony or are you going to kiss me?" John finally asked.

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice; he lowered his head and teasingly brushed his lips over John's before slightly biting his lower lip. John groaned and tried to catch Sherlock's lips between his, but he kept pulling away, tempting him. They both laughed, and Sherlock was about to put an end to his teasing when there was a knock on the door.

"Oh bloody hell," John muttered, and Sherlock froze on top of him.

"Harry, is that you?" John asked.

"Yes," she answered from the other side of the door.

"Come back in fifteen minutes," he asked, and once they heard her retreating footsteps, they started giggling, and Sherlock buried his face in John's neck. For a while, they remained silent while Sherlock nuzzled John's neck, sometimes pressing feather light kisses to his sleep warmed skin.

"We have to get dressed," Sherlock said after a while, and he got up to start rummaging for his clothes.

When John started getting off the bed, Sherlock was immediately by his side, ready to provide the support of his arm, but John's legs seemed steadier than the night before, and he could walk just fine by himself. He found a pair of trousers and a clean shirt, and he got dressed while Sherlock looked for his undergarment. He clearly remembered throwing them somewhere, but he had been so desperate by that point that he couldn't remember where. He finally found them in a dark corner of the room, and was about to put them on when he felt John's hand on his hip. The hand caressed his side, running up and down his smooth skin while John devoured him with his eyes.

"You're so beautiful," John said as he pulled Sherlock close to kiss him passionately.

Sherlock moaned, and their joined mouths vibrated with the muffled sound. John's hand slid down Sherlock's side once more, but instead of going up again, he dipped lower to grab a handful of his ass, which elicited another moan from Sherlock. They were both half-hard already, both needy and wanting, but Harry was coming back soon, and Sherlock was still as naked as the day he was born, so he pulled away and started reluctantly putting his clothes on. When he looked back at John, he was startled to see him wearing his mask. He had gotten so used to seeing him without it during the last week that the sight felt odd.

When Harry entered, Sherlock grabbed his coat and left the room to give them some privacy. He decided to go out for a walk, his familiar woollen coat feeling heavy and comforting on his shoulders. He walked up to Enraged Cape, from there he could see Aunt Martha's small house on Sailboat Bay. He sat on the rock that had witnessed his and John's first timid touch, as well as the dizziness it had caused, and he looked at his home, wondering what his life would be like from that day on. John was better, very soon Sherlock would have no reason to stay with him. Their treasure hunt was over, how would their meetings go? Would the red scarf still be involved? Now that Harry knew that he truly loved her brother, would Sherlock visit him in the manor? Would John visit him in Sailboat Bay? He wondered if Harry would still insist on hiding John from the rest of the world, and if John would continue to indulge her.

After about an hour of staring at his house and hoping to see his aunt, he decided to go back to the manor to check whether Harry and John were done talking. He didn't pass anyone while making his way upstairs, and once he was in front of John's bedroom, he pressed his ear to the door, trying to detect whether there were noises coming from inside that would indicate Harry's presence. When he didn't hear any voices, he knocked and waited for John to invite him inside.

He was sitting on his bed, his back supported by the headboard and his legs crossed in front of him. The brown leather of the mask contrasted with his too pale skin, but he still looked healthier than the day before. Sherlock dragged the desk chair close to the bed, and he sat, waiting for John to tell him about the conversation he and his sister had just had.

"I can't believe it," John said, "she was slightly tipsy. I can't remember the last time I had seen her only slightly tipsy."

"What did she say?" Sherlock asked.

"First, she stared at me for what seemed like ages. I had the mask on, of course, and she never asked me to remove it, but she looked at me, and she didn't look revolted, just...resigned I suppose. Then, she talked, and it was strange; she was civil. She said more in an hour than she had since my return from Afghanistan."

Sherlock had to resist the urge to press John, to ask once again what Harry had said. Instead, he crossed one long leg over the other and waited somewhat patiently for the rest of the tale.

"She started by saying that she never thought someone would ever love me, and I wanted to punch her until I remembered I used to think the same thing until very recently. A part of me still does, in fact. I can't believe you're really here, that you love me. Why don't you come to bed with me? It's easier to believe when I can touch you," John said while patting the mattress beside him.

"I have my boots on," Sherlock answered, and as soon as the words left his lips, he knew it wasn't a good enough reason to keep him out of John's bed. He removed his boots and jumped on the bed, sliding an arm around John's shoulder. Both felt at once the relief that always came from the other's close presence.

"She apologized," John continued, "she said she should never have insisted on keeping me away from everyone. I told her she never would have succeeded if I hadn't wanted to stay away from everyone anyway. She said that, from now on, I was free to see whomever I want whenever I want, which, I think, means she doesn't understand, but I let it go, I didn't want to fight. I don't think she truly realizes what she did wrong."

"I could talk to her, I'm not scared of her," Sherlock offered, and John squeezed his knee affectionately.

"No, it's fine. If she stops looking at me like I'm a decomposing corpse, I'll be happy. And hell, even if she doesn't, I've lived in those conditions before, I can do it again."

"Do you miss it sometimes? The presence of other people?"

"No. Yes. I mean I don't miss gossiping and drama, and I have no desire to happily chat on the church steps. I want to be happy, and I believe I already have all I need to be happy," John answered, and he turned to kiss Sherlock's temple.

"However," John added, "if you want, I wouldn't be averse to meeting those few people who gravitate around you. Perhaps not right now, but eventually."

"If you meet them, you will like them better than me," Sherlock said, his voice muffled by John's neck.

John laughed, throwing his head back and exposing more of his neck, which Sherlock took as an invitation, so he started kissing the underside of John's jaw.

"I don't doubt it," John said mischievously, "perhaps you could introduce me to that poor girl you left at the altar; I bet that, in her eyes, I'd look far less monstrous than you do."

Sherlock pinched John's side, and they both laughed when John tried to squirm away. He didn't make it very far; Sherlock still had an arm around him, and he tightened his grip.

"Harry talked to me about it while you were unconscious," Sherlock said when he remembered the brief conversation he had had with John's sister a few days before.

"She said I could invite Aunt Martha over if it was fine with you."

"I would really love to meet her; she seems very nice, but I'm not sure. Very nice people have run away from me before on plenty of occasions. I'm done with that part of my life; I'm done with the screams and disgust."

John _did_ have everything he needed to be happy; he had the beautiful landscapes of Sainte-Cécile and all the beautiful treasures he had shown Sherlock, he had the books in his library, and most importantly, he had Sherlock. For as long as he wanted him. It was a somewhat fragile balance, one that Sherlock had broken before, and that he had promised himself never to damage it ever again.

"Do you want me to meet them?" John asked cautiously after a few seconds.

"I don't really care. I'll continue to see them either way, but I know them, I know they will hope to meet you someday, especially Aunt Martha."

"She does sound lovely," John said.

"She is, and she already likes you a lot. Also, her hip is bothering her, so she's not really in a good enough shape to run away from anyone."

"Idiot," John said as he rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

Part of him wanted to refuse, to stay in the comfort of his familiar routine, and to continue avoiding contact with other people. Another part of him was curious to see if it would be different now that he was loved. Perhaps something had changed within him, something that would make him less horrible and terrifying. He sure felt like a different man since he had made a friend, and maybe people would be able to perceive that.

He had no desire to walk to the village to meet total strangers, but Mrs. Hudson and the small number of people who were part of Sherlock's life outside himself intrigued him. Once, in Fairy Cave, Sherlock had expressed the desire to spy on John while he was alone in his house, to observe the life he wasn't a part of, and right now, John felt the same kind of curiosity. Sherlock had given him at least a hundred proofs that he was trustworthy, that he wanted the best for him, and that he never wanted to let anyone, including himself, hurt him. Surely he would never put him in a situation that would result in pain.

"If I decide to do this, I want to wear my mask," he added.

"You don't need to wear it now," Sherlock said before kissing John's temple, just beside the mask.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" John asked and under his casual attitude, it was easy to detect the vulnerability caused by many years of inspiring horror in others.

"I love you, you're beautiful, take it off so I can kiss you properly."

John did as Sherlock asked, and for the next hour, they were thoroughly immersed in each other. It was unsafe to get undressed; now that Harry knew John felt better, nothing stopped her from interrupting, but they kissed hungrily nonetheless, hands snaking under clothes to feel the warm skin underneath. The rest of the day was spent in bed, Sherlock only leaving the room to pick up a few books from John's library downstairs. They took turns reading to each other, only pausing to kiss, nap, or eat.

Later, while they were eating in John's bed, the topic of a potential meeting with the small group of people gravitating around Sherlock came up again. At first, Sherlock was a bit uncertain; as much as he wanted to make John a bigger part of his life and include him even further in his small universe, he didn't want to make him do something that would make him uncomfortable. However, the more they talked, the more enthusiasm John showed. He kept asking questions, eager to know more about Aunt Martha's astronomy knowledge, Moran and Moriarty's marriage and careers, Gregory's new house, Mr. Lestrade preferred brand of scotch, and much more. There were a lot of questions that Sherlock couldn't answer, most of them involved relationships or feelings, and John kept asking about those, just because he thoroughly enjoyed the bewilderment on Sherlock's face.

"I'm not asking them!" Sherlock answered for the umpteenth time when John asked how Moran and Moriarty had met.

Sherlock tried to look irritated, but it was difficult when a part of him felt extremely flattered that John wanted to know more about the people he found the most interesting.

"I want to meet Mrs. Hudson," John said suddenly, "ideally soon because the more I think about it, the more I'm excited by the prospect."

"Good, she'll be very happy," Sherlock replied while grinning at John, "but I hope you know what effect that will have. Moran and Moriarty will hear about it, and they will undoubtedly start bothering me with offers of tea and ears again."

"Ears are great with tea, I'm quite fond of them," John said before pushing himself up to gently bite Sherlock's earlobe.

"I'm quite fond of you, too," he added before claiming Sherlock's mouth.

"Do you think we could do it tomorrow?" John asked once their lips parted,

"I could send one of the servants to invite her over for tea tomorrow."

"As you wish," Sherlock replied, "but since you're feeling better, she will expect me to go back home with her."

They both knew Sherlock had to leave; there was no logical reason for him to stay now that John wasn't sick anymore. It wasn't something they liked to think about; being in each other's company all the time during the last few days had been a dream come true, and thinking about their impending separation was almost painful.

"I know," John said, "and I hate that we'll be apart, no matter how briefly."

"We could move to Fairy Cave," Sherlock suggested, and John laughed.

"That would be lovely," John replied before falling silent for a few seconds, thinking.

"We could live together, you know," he said after a while. "Not here, because Harry is insufferable, but somewhere nice, perhaps a small house in a quiet place. Like Sailboat Bay."

Sherlock didn't say anything at first; there were no words strong enough to express how thrilled the idea of living with John was making him feel. Waking up in the same bed every morning, having breakfast together, spending long hours reading to each other, revisiting all the treasures of Sainte-Cécile and discovering new ones, snuggling up in front of a burning fireplace before retreating to the bedroom to be as loud as they wished while expressing their love for each other with their bodies. He wanted to make John moan for hours, he wanted to lick him all over until he couldn't hold back his cries of ecstasy, and once they found release, he wanted to make John howl and shiver by starting again.

"Yes, yes, please yes," Sherlock murmured between kisses, and John's grin was so wide it seemed as though it would reach his ears.

"Perhaps a meeting with Moran and Moriarty should happen soon, then. I've heard they are the best carpenters in Sainte-Cécile, and I bet they will agree to form a team to build us a house if we offer enough tea and ears."

The rest of the evening was spent making fantasy plans for their future home. John wanted a library, Sherlock wanted a room dedicated to chemistry and his various experiments. Both agreed that an enormous bed and the biggest tub available were necessary, as well as a fireplace with plush cushions in front of it. John insisted there would be no animal heads in the house as he had seen enough of them in the manor, but Sherlock suggested that the rule should only apply to stuffed animals, since animal heads could be useful in his experiments. At one point, John headed downstairs to send a servant to Mrs. Hudson's house with an invitation to join them for tea the next day, and when he came back up, Sherlock was waiting for him wearing nothing but his undergarment and a devilishly smug smile. John locked the door, and showing physical strength he hadn't shown in weeks, he ran to the bed and jumped in to join Sherlock.


	22. Chapter 22

The next morning, Martha was so excited that she woke up earlier than usual. She fixed herself oatmeal and toast for breakfast, cleaned the house, and worked on the sweater she was knitting for herself, all to pass the time until she would leave. She found herself thinking about the last week, which had been nothing less than chaotic; first, the plans for the wedding, followed by Harry Watson's visit to announce that the wedding was off. Then, she had dealt with the repercussions, which included calming the Hoopers and trying to convince them that murdering Sherlock wasn't a good idea. Despite all that, thinking about her nephew made her smile; he had always been careless, and she found comfort in the fact that he had gone to find John Watson, that he had fought for his life, and had stayed by his side for several days. For the first time in his life, it seemed as though Sherlock had found where he belonged, and the thought made her incredibly happy.

It had been a surprise when one of the Watsons' servants had knocked on her door to invite her over for tea the next day. She would finally get to meet the man who had made Sherlock's eyes sparkle with interest, the man who had made him run to the shore of Sailboat Bay several times per day, the man who had dragged him out of his shell a little, and who had made him smile. She would meet the man who had made a skull enter her house, and who had almost broken Sherlock's heart, a heart whose existence many people doubted. She couldn't remember being this excited since her wedding day.

When it was time, she got into her buggy and drove it to the manor on Spruce Cape. She knew it was faster to travel by boat, but she preferred the road, so she didn't mind the extra time it took to get there; it gave her the opportunity to enjoy the warm May air filled with the scent of leaves and blooming flowers. Once she arrived, two servants greeted her outside; one took care of the horse while the other one guided her inside. She barely had time to examine the splendour of the place before she found herself in a remarkably large and luxurious living room where Sherlock and John were in deep conversation.

Sherlock was leaning towards John, listening to whatever he was saying with a look of pure fondness on his face. He was wearing a shirt she didn't recognize. It was too large for him, and he had rolled the sleeves up, probably because they were too small; it was most likely one of John's shirts. John was looking up at Sherlock while talking enthusiastically, and his smile seemed to illuminate his whole face, despite most of it being covered by his leather mask. At one point, he reached up and flicked a curl out of Sherlock's eye, which made Martha feel as though she was intruding on something intimate, so she coughed slightly and both men looked in her direction.

"Aunt Martha!" Sherlock exclaimed as he ran to her and pulled her into a tight hug.

"My dear boy, I am so glad to see you again!" she said when he released her.

As happy as she was to be reunited with her nephew, there was someone else she was anxious to meet, and she turned her attention to him. John was standing close to the fireplace, watching the reunion with a small smile, but as soon as Martha looked at him, his smile faded and he looked uneasy. In a few small steps, she crossed the room and hugged him tightly, not letting go until he had relaxed in the embrace.

"I had been praying for someone like you to come into his life," she said, still holding his hands firmly in hers.

John didn't know how to respond. Sherlock had successfully convinced him that his aunt would not scream in disgust or flee the room upon meeting him, but he wasn't prepared for such an overwhelming wave of warmth. He felt something obstructing his throat, and it was suddenly terribly hard to breathe. His eyes prickled with tears he tried to will away, but Mrs. Hudson noticed, and while he was busy cursing the Holmes and their bloody observation skills, she pulled him back into a warm embrace and he tentatively circled her with his arms.

"It's fine dear, I know," she whispered.

"I had stopped wishing for someone like him, thank you for not losing hope," he said, and she pulled away to smile warmly at him.

They spent a lovely afternoon together, Martha and John doing most of the talking while Sherlock observed them attentively. He noticed that, every ten minutes, John confirmed that his mask was still in place, but after the first hour he was only verifying every half-hour or so; an undeniable sign that the meeting was going well. John asked Martha about astronomy, and she asked him all about the different steps of the treasure hunt. She even made him blush when she said he had been the first person who had managed to make Sherlock stand still for that long. Later, John asked whether Mrs. Hudson wanted to join him for dinner, but she declined, saying she already had plans with Mrs. Turner, which made Sherlock roll his eyes; of course his aunt was running to her tenants to tell them all about her meeting with John Watson.

When Martha announced that she was leaving, she looked at Sherlock expectantly, wondering whether he would come back with her. He felt an unpleasant churning feeling in his stomach, and he had to resist the rather childish urge to grab onto John and never let go. They had discussed this, and both knew that Sherlock had to return home, if not because John was healthy again, then because he hadn't brought any clean clothes with him. Kissing John was out of the question, not in front of his aunt, but he needed to say goodbye somehow, so he rested his hands on John's neck and pressed their foreheads together before whispering "I'll be back soon," and turning to leave.

"Sherlock!" John called out as Sherlock was about to close the door behind him.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as he turned around.

"I hate to see you leave," he said, "if you can arrange a meeting with Moran and Moriarty for tomorrow, please do so. I don't think I can wait much longer," he added, and Sherlock flashed him an extraordinary smile.

"Same time?" he asked, and when John nodded, it took al lot of restraint not to throw himself at him and kiss him senseless.

Sherlock decided to return home in the buggy with his Aunt Martha, and he left his small boat in West Birches Bay. Since Harry Watson had bought that portion of land, no one dared venture there except Sherlock, so the chances of the boat getting stolen were very thin. Also, there was something he needed to discuss with his aunt, but he didn't have time to tackle the subject before she turned to him with shining eyes.

"Oh, _Sherlock!_" she cried, "He is so lovely! Such a polite and charming man! He's the right one, isn't he?"

Sherlock kept quiet, but he smiled at the road in front of him. He had never doubted that Aunt Martha would appreciate John, but it was nice to see it confirmed. However, his joy was somewhat clouded by a nervous feeling deep in his chest; he had to tell his aunt about his and John's plan to live together, and he had calculated that there were three possible reactions to the announcement. Either she would be thrilled by the prospect, saddened by the thought of living alone, or a combination of the two. Holding the reins tighter, he took the plunge.

"John and I started talking about living together," he said.

Martha gripped his arm with both hands, her eyes filled with tears, and her smile was so wide Sherlock thought it must have been painful. Then, she released his arm and started clapping and laughing like a little girl.

"My boy, it's real this time, I can feel it!"

Sherlock was about to ask what she meant by 'this time', but she spoke before he could formulate his question.

"Will you live in the manor?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "I wish your father's house was available, but you understand that I can't throw Jim and Sebastian out."

"John suggested buying a small portion of land on Sailboat Bay," Sherlock answered, and he looked almost coy, "he wants to ask your tenants to form a team and build a small house," he added, and Aunt Martha gripped his arm again.

"Sherlock! This is so exciting! Something about your engagement to Molly seemed wrong, but John Watson is perfect and he loves you, I can sense it. You love him too, look at you, blushing like a virgin maiden!"

Sherlock grunted in annoyance, but blushed an even brighter shade of red when he pictured John's hot mouth on his neck; virgin maiden was a wrong comparison on both accounts.

"Aunt Martha! I will not be part of this discussion if you continue to shower me with such nonsense," he said, and he wanted to sound offended, but relief and affection seeped through his tone.

"Don't be too hard on me," Martha said, "you announce that you're getting married to the most amazing man, and you expect me to sit quietly and watch the landscapes? Surely you can't be serious," she added with a grin.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He had never mentioned marriage, in fact, he had never actually thought about it. Of course, if they started living together, people would expect them to get married. Two grown men living together without being married would most likely cause a scandal, and Sherlock didn't care at all; he and John had already been the topic of conversations plenty of times before. He could easily imagine what people were saying now that he had cancelled his wedding with Molly Hooper, had left for the Watsons' manor, and hadn't been seen in a week. He needed more information, he needed to speak with John, and he needed time, so he asked his aunt to keep quiet about what he had just told her.

For the rest of the journey, Sherlock pondered about marriage while Martha tried to pass on every single thing she knew about houses, telling him everything about optimal window sizes, location of the pantry, best material for floors, and kitchen equipment. They didn't stop home; they drove to Moran and Moriarty's house where Sherlock asked them whether they could attend a meeting with John and himself the next afternoon. Fortunately, they were both free, and they could hardly contain their excitement, even when Sherlock refused to tell them what the meeting was about. Soon after, Sherlock returned home, but Martha stayed to have dinner with Mrs. Turner.

Sleep didn't come easily to Sherlock that night. After spending the last few nights curled around John, his bed felt empty and cold. He twisted and turned for over an hour before finally falling into a restless sleep.

:::

The next morning, Sherlock woke up facing the grinning face of the skull, and he smiled back; John's gift was obviously pleased with the new developments in Sherlock and John's relationship, which was a significant improvement from its previous judgmental attitude. Aunt Martha was already busy in the kitchen when he sleepily stumbled down the stairs, and she put a steaming cup of tea in front of him when he sat down at the table. He tried to follow what his aunt was saying, tried to participate in the conversation, but his mind was already elsewhere, far east on Spruce Cape. He wondered what John was doing right now, if he had been able to fall asleep easily, and whether he was as excited as he was by their future living arrangement.

He left early, knowing he had a long journey ahead of him; he was traveling by foot in order to bring back his small rowboat on his journey back to Sailboat Bay. It wasn't a pleasant day to take a walk; the clouds were a dark shade of grey, the air was thick with humidity, and the wind was blowing furiously. Rain started falling when Sherlock was halfway to the manor, and in less than fifteen minutes, he was soaked to the bones. The trees were shaking, thunder was drowning all noises around him, and flashes of lightening often ripped the dark sky. The storm only lasted fifteen minutes, but by the time it was over, Sherlock was shivering and longing for another cup of tea and dry clothes.

The servant who opened the door almost gasped upon seeing him on the doorstep. He was drenched, his curls were plastered to his head, and his walking boots were covered in mud. Very soon, John greeted him at the door, his mask firmly in place, and the servant retreated back to the kitchen.

"Harry left earlier this morning for Rimouski, we are almost alone," John said mischievously before asking whether he had managed to arrange a meeting with Moran and Moriarty.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "they are coming early this afternoon, and they seemed beyond themselves with excitement, even if I didn't tell them what the meeting was about."

John checked his pocket watch and smiled at Sherlock.

"Why don't you accompany me to my bedroom so you can change into dry clothes… or not," he said before pecking Sherlock lightly on the lips.

Sherlock laughed, and he followed John through the familiar corridors, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. The room smelled like John, with a remaining trace of himself, which pleased him immensely, and he smiled fondly as he took a few steps into the room. As soon as the door was closed behind them, John threw himself at Sherlock and started sucking on his neck while unbuttoning his soaked shirt. Sherlock sighed in relief as he pressed one hand to John's hip, and with the other he untied the mask, took it off, and threw it onto the bed. As soon as it was off, John buried his face in Sherlock's neck once more.

Sherlock was still shivering, but it wasn't just from the cold anymore. John's skin felt warm under his fingers, even through the fabric of his clothes. While John was sliding his suspenders down his shoulders, Sherlock tugged on John's woollen cardigan, and he immediately got the message. He tore his lips away from Sherlock's neck to remove the garment before sliding Sherlock's wet shirt to the ground. Meanwhile, Sherlock worked on unbuttoning John's shirt, his numb fingers fumbling as more and more skin was uncovered, and soon, they were both shirtless. When John unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers, he was surprised to find out that he was wearing nothing underneath.

"You ridiculous man, who goes out in a storm without drawers?"

"A practical man? A man in a hurry? An aroused man?" Sherlock answered as he removed his muddy boots and kicked off his trousers.

Meanwhile, John removed his own trousers, and once they were both naked, he guided Sherlock to the bed and under the heavy duvet. Immediately, John wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock, and he pressed their bodies together so he could share some of his body heat. He tried to ignore how cold Sherlock's usually warm skin felt; he only focused on rubbing his skin to stimulate blood circulation and warm him up.

Eventually, Sherlock stopped shivering, and John's caresses became more focused on arousing than warming up. Sherlock followed John's lead, and he sought his lips with his own. The resulting kiss was demanding and filled with want; no slow dance of tongues, no careful biting, just warmth, wetness, and tongues thrusting against each other frantically. Sherlock could feel John's arousal pressing against his stomach, the soft skin burning hot against his own. When John broke the kiss, Sherlock protested, but he didn't have time to linger on the lack of doctor mouth on his own, because John manoeuvred them until Sherlock was on his back, John straddling his thighs.

Their erect cocks were inches away from each other, and John squeezed them together with one hand while caressing Sherlock's sides with the other. Sherlock moaned, and he pushed his head so violently into the pillow that a few feathers flew out. His left hand joined John's, and that their entwined fingers pumped their cocks together, at first slowly, but building a faster rhythm fuelled by their combined languorous moans and throaty panting.

John's vocabulary was reduced to Sherlock's name, and he used it repeatedly while rutting against his thighs to seek a desperately needed friction. Sherlock's head was thrown back and he was biting his lower lip, but small whimpers still managed to escape his mouth. He could feel himself getting closer and closer to climax, and he tightened his grip on their members, John doing the same until the pressure was too much and the need for release almost unbearable. Sherlock felt his cock twitch, and he arched his back as semen spilled onto their joined hands and both their stomachs. His thighs were shaking and waves of warm pleasure were running through his body, starting from his groin and traveling to his extremities in a steady pulsing rhythm. He was breathing fast, and his eyes were squeezed so tightly shut that all he could see were splashes of colors. He wasn't even aware that he had stopped stroking, but he heard John's cry of ecstasy, and felt his semen splattering his stomach and softening cock.

Once he was spent, the muscles holding John up gave out, and he sprawled down on top of Sherlock, smearing semen onto his own stomach in the process. He pressed his open mouth to Sherlock's neck; not quite a kiss, but it was all he could muster in his exhausted state. Sherlock was gently stroking his back, and he was so serene and drowned in bliss that he would have slept if Sherlock hadn't pinched one of his buttocks. He groaned in response, and Sherlock laughed softly.

"Get up," Sherlock said, "we need to get cleaned up before the married ones arrive."

"Why don't _you_ get up?" John asked, the sound muffled by Sherlock's neck.

"Because there's a heavy doctor on my chest," he answered playfully, and John groaned again, but he got up and went to his bathroom to soak two flannels that he brought back, tossing one at Sherlock's smug face. They were rubbing the semen off their stomachs when there was a sudden knock on the door.

"Doctor Watson? There are two people here to see you," the servant said.

"Please show them to the living room, I'll be right with them," he said while Sherlock stifled his laughter into a pillow.

"You see, that's one of the reasons I suggested we acquire a house of our own," John told Sherlock while putting on his drawers.

Sherlock got off the bed and reluctantly picked up his still soaked trousers, disgusted by the idea of putting them on again.

"I don't suppose you have a pair that will fit me?" he asked John.

John rummaged through his cabinet until he found a pair of dark brown trousers.

"Those are too long, and I haven't had time to have them altered. The waist won't fit, and they will still be too short for you, but I think it's better than your wet ones."

Sherlock thanked him and put the trousers on. As predicted, they were too big at the waist and a few inches too short, but his suspenders would fix the waist problem and once he had his boots on they didn't seem that short. He also borrowed a shirt from John, rolled the sleeves up, and tucked it in the trousers.

"You look handsome," John said as he pulled Sherlock to him using his suspenders, and he kissed him fully on the lips.

"So do you," Sherlock replied, and John blushed as he picked up his mask and put it on, deftly tying the small cords on the back of his head. Then, after sharing one last kiss, they joined the two gentlemen waiting for them in the living room.

:::

Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty arrived earlier than expected at the manor; because of the storm, they had predicted the road would be muddy and difficult, so they had left early. However, it wasn't as bad as expected, which is why they were currently sitting alone in the Watsons' living room. The manor, of course, was familiar; they had worked on its constructions a few years back, and it was nice to revisit an old workplace.

They were discussing the type of wood they had used for the mouldings when John and Sherlock entered. At once, Moran and Moriarty got up to greet them, and Moriarty elbowed his husband as discreetly as possible, hoping he would notice too. Sherlock's hair was damp and wilder than usual, as if it had started drying while his head had been resting on a pillow. His lips were red, and his opened collar showed a red mark on his neck, the kind of mark Sebastian liked to leave on Jim's inner thigh by sucking on the skin hard enough to burst blood vessels underneath. Both Sherlock and John seemed a little more out of breath than descending stairs could explain, and what they could see of John's face seemed unnaturally flushed.

"Doctor Watson!" Moran exclaimed, "It is such a pleasure to meet you at last! I'm Sebastian Moran," he said as he warmly shook John's hand.

From the side, Sherlock could focus his attention on John, and he noticed that he nervously licked his lips when Moran looked at him and extended his hand. It took a few seconds for John to recognize that the man in front of him wasn't expressing any sign of horror, and when that fact settled in, John smiled warmly and Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding.

"Thank you Mr. Moran, it's nice to meet you too," John said.

"Please, call me Sebastian," he said, and John nodded in agreement.

"Only if you call me John."

"And I am James Moriarty, but call me Jim," he said while shaking John's hand.

Jim sat with his husband on the couch, while Sherlock and John took place on the settee so the two couples were facing each other. They chatted pleasantly for a while, until a servant brought them tea and biscuits. Then, John tackled the subject he hadn't been able to stop thinking about since he and Sherlock had first discussed it.

"You must be wondering why Sherlock and I asked you to meet us here. Of course, I was curious to meet you; Sherlock told me all about your conversations at Gregory Lestrade's wedding and during your Christmas reception, and I must admit I was intrigued, but the real reason is because we have something to ask you, something quite big actually."

Jim's eyes widened with interest, and he nodded enthusiastically while gesturing for John to go ahead.

"We started talking about living together," Sherlock started, and Jim gasped, squeezing Sebastian's arm tightly as he did so.

Sherlock couldn't repress a smile; his aunt had reacted in pretty much the same way. John waited until he had Jim's attention again before continuing.

"The manor is big enough, but you've met my sister, so you probably understand why I don't want us to live here," he said, and Sebastian gave a nod of approval.

"We would like to buy a small parcel of land on Sailboat Bay and have a small house built there," John added.

"Yes, yes of course!" Sebastian enthused, guessing what Sherlock and John wanted to ask.

John laughed at Sebastian's eagerness, a clear and genuine laugh that made something warm swell up deep in Sherlock's stomach.

"What we wanted to ask," John continued, "is whether you will accept to work as our architects."

"Of course we will," Jim said, "we offered our help before, and the offer still stands."

"We will do anything we can do to help," Sebastian added, "and you won't believe how nice your house will be."

For the rest of the afternoon, they mostly discussed house plans. Sherlock and John told their two architects all the ideas they had had, and Jim noted everything in a leather-bound notebook. When the afternoon was drawing to an end, John decided to ask all the questions he had previously asked Sherlock about Sebastian and Jim's marriage. The two men were patient, and they answered all the questions with enthusiasm and fondness; it was obvious they were still smitten with each other, even after all those years together. John and Sherlock learned that Sebastian and Jim had met when they were seventeen and fifteen respectively. They had been friends, then lovers, before finally getting married eight years later.

"We come from very traditional families, it's an understatement to say they were not supportive, but what could they do? We were young and in love, we couldn't get our hands off each other…oh but I suppose you can understand that," Jim said while raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

Both Sherlock and John blushed a fiery shade of crimson, and Sebastian's lips twisted upwards as he tried to suppress a smile. In order to divert the married men's attention from his and Sherlock's obvious discomfort, John asked another question.

"Who proposed, then?" he said, and Jim took his partner's hand to stroke his knuckles amorously.

"He did," Jim answered, "he's such a romantic fool. He brought me to the top of the mountain where we had shared our first kiss."

"Romantic fool or not, I didn't have to beg for his hand; he practically jumped on me before I could even finish to propose!" Sebastian added, making Jim and John laugh.

Very soon, Sebastian and Jim returned home, as did Sherlock, but not before he had changed back into his now almost dry clothes and kissed John until they were both breathless. Later, when he was alone in his bed, he smiled at the skull and thought about Sebastian and Jim's relationship. It was now extremely clear why they had been reminded of themselves when they had first heard about Sherlock and John having been spotted in an embrace among the trees. Sherlock closed his eyes and wondered what it would be like to be married to John. Probably not that different from just living with him, but he had noticed the way Jim had sometimes glanced at Sebastian's ring; there was something possessive about the very small gesture, and Sherlock found that he wasn't opposed to the idea of a small reminder that John was his, that he was John's.

Also, a voice that he was trying to ignore kept reminding him that getting married would shelter John from another scandal, would protect him from the petty rumours bound to circulate about them. Sherlock didn't mind the other villager's opinion, but kind and respectful John didn't deserve to be the target of the villager's contempt any more than he already was. John had been the one to bring peace and quiet in Sherlock's restless body, if Sherlock could alleviate some of the burden weighting on his ever so strong shoulders, he would seize the opportunity.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Bound in marriage. It sounded nice.

Then, when sleep didn't come, Sherlock thought about different ways to ask for John's hand in marriage. A weird saying according to him, it wasn't John's hand that he wanted, but his whole body with every hair, every freckle, every scar, and every single inch of soft skin. There were so many places where he could ask John to marry him, every one of them filled with memories of a treasure, but he was particularly fond of Enraged Cape under the moonlight where he had first shivered while feeling John's body close to his. When he finally fell asleep, he was still trying to find the perfect way to ask John to marry him.

:::

The rest of the month of May went by in a blur. Even if he had officially returned to Sailboat Bay, Sherlock still managed to spend most of his waking time with John. They met every day in a place they had agreed on the day before, but it was usually somewhere on the Watsons' land in order to avoid being seen by a villager. Martha had confirmed that the spite and anger directed at Sherlock were of epic proportions, and they valued their tranquility too much to readily expose themselves to the scrutinizing eye of some ill intentioned inhabitant. Also, they preferred to spend time in places where they could slowly explore each other's body without interruption.

Martha made frequent trips to the store, and she talked a lot with Mrs. Lestrade, so she was well informed on what was being said about her nephew around town. Molly Hooper, of course, was crestfallen, and her family was furious. They felt betrayed, as though they had been used, and they wanted nothing to do with Sherlock and the people associating with him. Sarah Lestrade had one of the less enviable positions in the conflict; she was torn between her best friend whose heart had been shattered by Sherlock, and her husband who remained loyal to Sherlock. She wished the peace would return, but meanwhile, she thought Molly needed her comfort more, so she was officially on her side. However, late at night, when Gregory was holding her tightly in his arms and telling her about the treasure hunt John had orchestrated, she couldn't help thinking that Sherlock was probably living a love story that had only been heard of in fairy tales.

The Lestrades were all on Sherlock's side; they loved him dearly, knew how important he was to Gregory, and although they couldn't deny that what he had done was wrong and incredibly stupid, they believed he had had valid reasons to break off the engagement. However, most people didn't see it that way, and more than ever, Sherlock was at the center of the villager's conversations. Gregory was very invested in putting an end to the rumours, and any customer who was caught speaking ill of his friend was given a good talking-to that easily competed with those given by the strictest fathers in Sainte-Cécile. When the word got out that Sherlock had been living in the manor, Gregory berated anyone who had something rude to say on the matter. He told anyone who would listen that John Watson had been sick, and that Sherlock had selflessly helped take care of him. Very soon, the gossiping villagers were so scared of Gregory's wrath that they kept quiet while they were in the store.

The following Sunday night dinner was attended by the regulars, except Molly and Sherlock, the former because she was too upset to face a small crowd of Sherlock supporters, and the latter because he was sprawled out naked on the beach of Lover's Island with John over him, justifying the island's name. As promised, Sherlock and John's plan of living together wasn't mentioned by Martha, Jim, or Sebastian, but the main topic of conversation was the fact that the three had finally met Harry Watson's masked brother. Those who had met him answered every single questions the others had, and they raved incessantly about his amiable dispositions, his kindness, his charm, his gorgeous eyes, and his beautiful smile. Gregory felt a little jealous that Moran and Moriarty had met John. He could understand that Mrs. Hudson had been the first one to meet him, but he had always thought he was closer to Sherlock than the married ones. Before dessert was over, he slipped into the store and wrote a short note for Sherlock that he gave to Mrs. Hudson before she left.

_Sherlock,_

_I miss you, old friend. Chess game soon? Also, I'd like to meet the man who stole your heart, if you both want to. You know where to find me,_

_Gregory_

Sherlock wasn't surprised when his aunt handed him the carefully folded piece of paper. Gregory, of course, had been at the weekly dinner with their little group, and he had heard all about John from Martha, Jim, and Sebastian; it wasn't surprising that he also wanted to meet him. From what he had observed during John's meetings with Aunt Martha and the married ones, things had gone well enough that he didn't doubt Gregory would get to meet John sooner than later. He made a mental note to discuss the idea with John the next day.

:::

Three days later, Gregory was standing awkwardly on the doorstep of the Watsons' manor, waiting for someone to let him in. He was nervous, almost as nervous as he had been in the church while waiting for his bride to enter. It wasn't the fact that he was about to meet John Watson that was making his stomach churn, after all, everyone who had met him agreed that there was nothing about him that justified being nicknamed The Beast. What was making him nervous was his own reaction. As much as he was excited to meet John, he was afraid his face would betray him and show some sign of aversion, or worse, pity. While waiting for the door to open, he tried to muster all of his strength to control his facial expression, which he suspected made him look constipated, but he could settle for constipated; it was far better than looking appalled.

When the door finally opened, he was greeted by Sherlock's grinning face. He was carrying a heavy looking chessboard under one arm, and he had a velvet pouch in one hand that probably contained the chess pieces. Behind him, John Watson – unmistakable because of brown leather mask – was struggling with a big basket.

"Gregory! Good, you're on time," Sherlock said as he got out the door, making way for John.

"Please meet my friend, John Watson," he added.

John switched the basket handle from his right hand to his left to shake Gregory's extended hand. The first thing Gregory noticed when he looked at him was that his eyes were indeed beautiful; a dark blue that made him forget everything about the mask when he looked directly into them. He also noticed the apprehension in those big blue eyes, and immediately he felt the need to make it better, to erase the damages made by dozens of hardhearted people that had looked at him with disgust. He gave him his best smile, and he felt John's traits loosening as he smiled back.

"It's nice to meet you!" Gregory said, "You have no idea how much Sherlock talked about you."

"Oh hush!" Sherlock told his friend, and John laughed, the sound so pleasant that Gregory immediately wanted to hear it again.

"You should have heard him, it was impossible to shut him up once he got started," Gregory added, and John laughed again while Sherlock scowled.

"It's such a beautiful day," John said, "we thought it would be pleasant to eat outside on Enraged Cape.

"It sounds lovely," Gregory answered.

The three of them made their way to the edge of Enraged Cape, and they settled on the same large rock that Sherlock and John had sat on before. While John was unpacking the food from the basket, Sherlock opened a bottle of wine and poured them generous glasses. While they were eating, John asked Gregory many questions about his wedding ceremony; questions that he was happy to answer, especially since John didn't seem reluctant to answer his questions about London and the excitement of living in one of Europe's largest city.

"Are you good at chess?" Gregory asked John once the last mouthful of bread had been swallowed.

"Not as good as Sherlock," he answered before licking a remaining trace of butter on his lower lip, smiling as if it were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

"Do you want to play?" Gregory inquired and John agreed, taking the chess pieces out of the pouch to place them on the board.

While they played and chatted pleasantly, Sherlock stretched and lay down on the rock, his eyes closed as he distractedly listened to the conversation between his two friends. Gregory's nervousness when he had opened the door had been so obvious he could have observed it from Sailboat Bay, but the tension in his jaw had eased quickly, and he had noticed the same loosening in John soon afterwards. Observing his two friends interacting with each other was a real pleasure; they had gotten along remarkably well almost immediately, and their appreciation for each other seemed genuine and natural. Their conversation was fluid, and they both seemed to enjoy teasing Sherlock, which he didn't mind if it meant he could watch John's mouth curl up in a mischievous smile.

The sun was warm on his skin as he listened to John and Gregory's chess game. He mostly kept quiet, but sometimes offered some well-placed comment on their plebeian strategies. At one point, John ran an affectionate hand through his hair, and he took this as an invitation to lay his head in John's lap. He felt himself blushing when Gregory smiled and winked at him, but he ignored him and closed his eyes again to better enjoy the familiar caress. He lay content until he heard something he had never heard before.

"Checkmate!" Gregory cried enthusiastically, and Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow to look at the board curiously, deducing what the final moves had been from the remaining pieces.

"Well done," John said, and Gregory laughed, a little drunk on wine and his victory.

"Thank you, it feels like it's the first game I have won in _years_," Gregory said, and John chuckled before asking if he had time for a revenge game.

After checking that Sherlock wasn't too bored (he wasn't; watching his two friends interacting was fascinating), John and Gregory started a new game, finishing the wine in the process. Gregory's cheeks were red from the alcohol, and he had rolled up his sleeves, while John had opted to take off his woollen cardigan and undo the two first buttons of his shirt. The beautiful June sky was still high and hot, and the air was heavy enough to dampen their skin with a light veil of sweat, but not so much that they suffocated.

John won the second game, so of course, they had to play another one in order to determine who was the champion of the day. The two tipsy opponents tried to intimidate each other by sneering and glaring, but they ended up laughing most of the time, their falsely threatening attitudes forgotten. Sherlock, now sitting down to better watch the game, tried to frown at their childish behaviour, but it was hard with the beginning of a small pulling his lips upwards. John's hand was now resting very low on his back, and sometimes, when Gregory was distracted by his next move, John let one finger wander even lower to stroke the skin under Sherlock's trousers.

In the end, Gregory won the match despite John putting on a very good fight. The sun was slowly making its descent towards the horizon, the leaves were swaying softly under the wind's caress, and two lonely birds were calling out to each other; the only sound audible over the three men's lively voices.

"Very well played," John said while he put the chess pieces back into the velvet pouch.

"You played very well too, we'll have to do it again" Gregory replied.

"Of course, you are a very pleasant opponent," John replied, and Gregory smiled at him, all his nervousness of a few hours ago forgotten. He had barely noticed the mask throughout the afternoon, only looking at it when John touched it with small, effective movements to ensure it was still in place.

Once it was time for Gregory to leave, Sherlock and John watched him go from their sitting place on Enraged Cape, and as soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock pinned John down and kissed him with force, his tongue sliding against John's lower lip until he let him in. After a few minutes, John gently pushed Sherlock off to catch his breath; he was panting, his hair was ruffled, and he was clutching Sherlock's shirt tightly.

"Not that I'm complaining, but what's gotten into you?" John asked, still breathing heavily but smiling widely.

"Hmm it's you," Sherlock said while peppering John's neck with small kisses. "Watching you get along with my friend, watching how much he liked you, and watching that red flush on your neck as you drank wine," he added before licking a long trail up John's throat until he could gently suck on his Adam's apple.

"I found it all very arousing," he concluded, and when John breathed his name, Sherlock claimed his mouth once more.

He had planned on returning home at the same time as Gregory; Aunt Martha needed his help with moving some furniture around. However, as he leaned down to undo John's shirt buttons with his teeth, he thought that being a little late wasn't that dramatic.


	23. Chapter 23

Two weeks into the month of June, Martha woke Sherlock up unusually early despite his vehement protests. When it was impossible to ignore his aunt's nagging, he got out of bed, got dressed, and stumbled down the stairs, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. He didn't even have time to sit down and have a cup of tea; she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of the house saying she had something extremely important to show him. He was much stronger than she was, but he couldn't deny her anything when she was that excited, so he followed her outside.

She led him to a recluse wood on Sailboat Bay, not too far from their house. A few yards into the small forest, there was a large clearing surrounded by many trees. Despite its proximity to the small number of other houses on Sailboat Bay, the clearing seemed far away from everything; it felt as though they were in an entirely isolated area. It was quiet, calm, and intimate; the perfect place to build a hou— _Oh!_

"Aunt Martha," Sherlock said warily, "why did you bring me here?"

"It's a beautiful place, isn't it?"

"Aunt Martha, answer me!" he said, his heart beating faster than was healthy and his voice pitched slightly higher than normal.

He needed her to talk, to explain; he had reached a conclusion that she needed to confirm because he was on the verge of exploding (it sure felt that way). His thoughts were swirling so fast that he barely noticed when his aunt grabbed his hand.

"I bought this for you and John," she said, her voice filled with pride and repressed excitement.

Sherlock blinked several times, looking around him while he detailed every single tree, every rock, every wild flower, and every patch of sand that surrounded him. This couldn't be real. He thought his aunt had awakened him several minutes ago, but he needed to consider the possibility that he was still sleeping; it seemed a lot more probable than him being offered that beautiful hunk of Sailboat Bay.

"This can't be possible," he said.

"I've been saving some money for you ever since you father died," she said, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears, "I never knew what I was saving for, but I knew it would eventually make you happy. This is my wedding gift for you and John."

For one very short moment, he felt sorry that there wasn't a wedding planned (yet) and that he hadn't even formed a concrete plan to propose (yet). However, his aunt was incredibly happy and he was ecstatic, so he promptly forgot about that small detail, and he hugged his aunt so tightly he knocked all wind out of her.

"Thank you," he whispered, and she patted his back lovingly.

"I love you, my dear boy, and it's a very selfish gift; I'm keeping you near me."

"It's perfect," Sherlock confirmed, and he let her go to have a proper look around.

The vegetation was lush and coloured in dozens of different shades of green. The trees surrounding the glade were old and tall, and it seemed as if they were forming a vegetal rampart around the place where their house would soon stand, a shelter around a shelter. He would have liked to stand there longer, in the middle of his and John's future home, but Aunt Martha needed his help. Apparently she had accepted to bake pies for the next day's dinner at the Lestrades, and she always asked for his help when she had a lot of dough to roll. It was a tedious task, but he always got to steal bits of apple peals so it wasn't all bad. He would come back later, alone, to enjoy his gift.

Later, when there were four pies aligned on the kitchen counter, Sherlock went out again to revisit the clearing – his and John's clearing. He quickly crossed the distance separating the edge of the wood – his and John's wood – and Aunt Martha's house, and he calculated that there were 663 feet between them. He was so absorbed by his calculation that it took him longer than usual to notice that something was out of the ordinary. On one of the trees, close to the path leading to the clearing, a familiar red scarf had been tied to a branch and was floating softly, rocked by the wind. Suddenly, his heartbeat quickened. He untied the scarf, brought it close to his face to inhale John's enticing smell, and he made his way towards the glade.

Standing in the middle, surrounded by trees and bathed in the afternoon sun, stood John Watson in all his glory. When John smiled warmly at him, he grinned back, and once he was close enough, he delicately wrapped the red scarf around John's neck. He had forgotten how nicely the scarlet scarf and the brown leather of the mask complimented each other, and he was pleasantly reminded of their first meetings and of the anticipation he had felt every morning, hoping to see the red piece of fabric.

"It took you long enough to come," John said.

"Aunt Martha was baking pies; I helped," he said, perfectly aware of the ridiculousness of his answer compared to the solemnness the moment inspired.

John had raised the flag, he had summoned him, and as usual, he had come. They were now alone in their piece of land, alone in a place that was entirely theirs, a place where they were protected and loved, and that no one had ever tainted with spite or disgust. They were extremely far away from the rumours and gossip, far from Anderson's lies and from Harry Watson's hate. They were home, exactly where they belonged.

"It's been two years since I first saw you," John said as he laid a hand on Sherlock's neck, holding him, grounding him, "yet, every time I see you, I'm surprised by how breathtakingly beautiful you are."

Sherlock wanted to respond, he wanted to say that he felt the same and that every day he was pleasantly surprised to feel the same thrill in his stomach that he had felt on that first night among the trees close to the foxes' enclosure. However, something important was unfolding, and his instinct told him he needed to let John speak.

John was looking up at him and Sherlock couldn't look away; he was anchored by his blue eyes, nothing else existed but those eyes and the loving words John was saying to no one else but him, the words he would never tell anyone else.

"You're not just a great heron; you're a phoenix. When I look at you and at how brilliant you are, I get the feeling that you could outlive everyone, always rising from your ashes."

John raised his other hand so they were both resting on either sides of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock swallowed hard, but his gaze never faltered; he kept his eyes fixed on John's. His whole body was shaking with slight tremors; no one had ever spoken to him that way, and he was drinking John's words as if he were dying of thirst.

"John," Sherlock whispered lovingly as John's thumbs stroked his collarbones through his shirt.

John shook his head, and Sherlock fell silent.

"I still can't believe that what we share is real, but I need it, I want all of it for as long as I live. I want to create stories with you. I want to be the instrument you play, and I want you to be mine; I want my ears to be filled with nothing but the music we'll make."

John pressed his hands to Sherlock's cheeks, and he stroked the cheekbones he was so fond of with his thumbs. All Sherlock could think about was how right John's last words had been. The gentle words he was quietly speaking were arranging themselves like a partition in Sherlock's head; John was creating music and Sherlock's whole body was vibrating with it.

"I want you to choose this. You could conquer the world, you could have anyone, but I am standing in front of you today asking you to choose the sacred simplicity of us being together. I want us to get married."

"You said I would make a horrible husband," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Yes, well I'll take what I can get," John said, and they both laughed until Sherlock leaned down to press their lips together, sliding an arm around his waist to pull him closer. His other hand cupped John's face, and he shivered when John stroked his arms in slow up and down motions.

"I choose this. I choose you; I'll always choose you," Sherlock said once their lips parted, "and I want us to get married too, soon if convenient."

"Soon," John confirmed and they kissed again, with more hunger this time.

Sherlock followed John to a tree with a large trunk, the kind of tree they had leaned against several times before, and they sat together. Sherlock had an arm wrapped around John's shoulders and John snuggled close, his face buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck. He kept his mask on; the fact that they were outside, even in such an intimate place, meant there was a slight chance that someone could walk in on them. When the sun started getting closer to the horizon, John extracted himself from Sherlock's long arms and extended a hand to help him get up. His blue eyes were twinkling with mischief, and there was something devilish about his smile.

"I have orders to take you home," he said, and Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Take me home? Are you and Aunt Martha planning something? Oh just look at you, of course you are. All right then, take me home," he said as he entwined his fingers with John's.

John didn't respond, he couldn't respond without laughing. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock had noticed something was going on, however, it was a surprise that he hadn't noticed it sooner. Squeezing Sherlock's hand tighter, he led him out of the small wood – their small wood – and into Mrs. Hudson's house.

Martha, Gregory, Jim, and Sebastian were waiting for them when they arrived. When Sherlock opened the door, there were approximately five seconds of silence during which the others tried to determine whether everything had gone according to plan. When they saw that both Sherlock and John were smiling, they hurried to express heartfelt congratulations.

"Did you plan this?" Sherlock asked his aunt while she was crushing his ribs with her arms.

"John did after I showed him the place," she answered.

"I was inspired," John said, "the place truly is beautiful, I'm surprised it wasn't owned yet."

"I believe its remoteness was perceived as a disadvantage by most people," Sebastian said, warmly shaking John's hand to offer his congratulations.

"We visited it a few times since Mrs. Hudson bought it," Jim added, his eyes shining with excitement, "we will need to cut down a few trees if we want to respect the plans, but it will look beautiful."

"Speaking of plans," Sebastian said, "the final version is done, and Jim put together a team who will build the house. The construction will start in two days."

Martha clapped at the announcement, and both John and Sherlock thanked their architects for the umpteenth time, but Gregory loudly cleared his throat and everyone turned to look at him.

"The new house sounds beautiful, but I believe we are here to celebrate an engagement!" he said, getting more excited with every word he was saying.

The others seemed to have forgotten what the dinner-party was all about, and Gregory's reminder prompted another round of congratulations. Martha hugged Sherlock, then John, and then Sherlock again while wiping tears from her eyes. Gregory clapped them both on the shoulder, but he ended up pulling them both close for a hug at the same time, crushing them against each other while they laughed. When it was Jim and Sebastian's turn, Jim hugged John first, and then turned to hug Sherlock.

"Now you actually _are_ allowed to have sex, you naughty, naughty boys," he whispered so only Sherlock could hear.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Jim was already gone, hugging John and patting his back in a friendly manner. Nothing in John's face and bearing showed embarrassment, so Sherlock supposed Jim had kept his unsubtle comments to himself.

Then, it was Sebastian's turn to embrace them, and when he released John, Martha was coming out of the kitchen with several wine glasses in her hands, Gregory following with a bottle of sparkling wine. He popped the cork opened and poured everyone a generous portion. Once everyone had a glass, Gregory made the first toast.

"Sherlock, John, it's only the second time I see you together, but it's obvious just by looking at you that you love each other very much, and I don't doubt that if you had the possibility, you would spend an eternity making each other happy."

Sherlock slid a possessive arm around John's waist and brought him closer, which made Gregory smile before he continued his short speech.

"Sherlock, you're my best mate, and I couldn't be happier for you; not only did you find someone mad enough to put up with you," he said as he raised his glass to John who chuckled, "but you also found someone I can actually beat at chess and who doesn't call me an idiot when he wins. To the future married couple!" he finished as he raised his glass.

Sebastian went next.

"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure getting to know you both, and seeing you together never fails to bring back memories of my husband and I when we were younger. I hope that when you're old there will still be as much love in you eyes as there is right now when you look at each other. It's my absolute pleasure to participate in building you a house that will be witness to your love story. To the newly engaged couple!" he said before raising his glass.

Once everyone had taken a sip of their drink, Jim made the next toast.

"It's been quite an adventure, even just watching from the side. I was hoping you two would end up together ever since that picnic we organized, when Anderson announced that he had seen you two together. I must admit I had doubts when you showed up at our house and collapsed on our floor."

John who hadn't heard of the incident turned to look at his fiancé with inquisitive eyes, and Sherlock held him tighter and bowed his head to whisper "later" in his ear.

"I almost lost all faith in you when you announced that you were engaged to a woman, but in the end, you did what's right. You both did. May you live long, happy years together, and may your marriage bring you…gratification. Although I don't doubt it will, John _is_ a doctor after all," he said before winking at John who, judging by the colour of his ears, had turned bright red.

"I raise my glass to Sherlock Holmes and his _doctor,_ John Watson," he concluded, and once again, the others raised their glasses in response.

Then, it was Martha's turn to clear her throat, but she didn't speak right away; she looked at the two men standing close to each other. She looked at Sherlock's protective arm around John, and she saw how naturally John seemed to lean towards Sherlock. They looked happy.

"Following his father's death, I had the pleasure of watching that little boy grow, and as he grew into a solitary man, I prayed every night for the good Lord to send him a friend. I had to wait many, _many_ years, but finally my prayers were answered," she said, and she looked at John with tear-filled eyes.

She had to pause for a few seconds before continuing.

"I knew there was something special about John Watson the moment Sherlock mentioned him for the first time; there were as many stars in his eyes as there are in a clear June sky. It was obvious he was completely smitten as soon as John organized a treasure hunt which, if I may say so, is the most romantic courtship I have ever witnessed; therefore, I suggest we raise our glasses to the ingenious John Watson."

Everyone did so, including Sherlock who turned to John and fondly looked at him. John looked back, mouthed 'I love you', and Sherlock squeezed his waist a little tighter.

"They almost lost each other for a moment, and I don't think I was ever as scared as I was when I saw Sherlock in Jim and Sebastian's spare room, looking scared, lost, and _so small_. But in the end, they found each other again, and I don't believe they will ever let the other out of their sight for longer than strictly necessary. To Sherlock, who is still my little boy, and to John Watson, whom I already love like a son."

Again, the glasses were raised, and another round of congratulations was offered. Then, under the watchful eyes of their friends – and family, in Sherlock's case – Sherlock and John shared their first public kiss, which prompted applause, whistling, and a howling sound that was most certainly Gregory's doing. Martha filled up their glasses again, and they chatted pleasantly while the dinner was finishing to cook.

The dinner consisted of many courses and lasted for several hours. At the end of it, they were all extremely full and a little tipsy. When they finally left the table, it was almost one in the morning. Gregory was the first to leave (with a few pieces of strawberry pie), followed by a yawning Sebastian and Jim who was still high on sugar. John was trying to locate his scarf that he had taken off at some point during the night when Martha approached him.

"It's late and you live so far away, why don't you stay with us for the night? Now that you two are engaged the proprieties are respected, and I would be terribly worried if I knew you were walking home all by yourself," she said while retrieving his scarf from under one of the couch cushions.

"I gladly accept your invitation; it's very late indeed, and I'm exhausted, thank you Mrs. Hudson," John said, and Sherlock smiled at him from across the room.

Martha insisted on doing the dishes before going to bed, and John helped while Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, complaining that it was taking too long but doing absolutely nothing to accelerate the process. Once every glass, plate, and utensil was back in its storage place, Martha kissed them both on the cheek, and John thanked her once again for organizing such a lovely gathering.

Then, Sherlock led John to his bedroom where they got ready for bed. Despite Sherlock's suggestion that they slept naked, John refused categorically, saying that the door didn't have a lock. Sighing, Sherlock lent him a nightshirt. It was snug on John's broader and more muscular chest, and Sherlock devoured him with his eyes, suddenly reconciled with the fact that they wouldn't be sleeping naked.

"Aren't you going to take off your mask?" Sherlock asked when John slid under the covers.

"Mrs. Hudson—" he began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"_Mrs_. Hudson was engaged and married once, she knows better than to open the door without a warning."

John hesitated, his fingers hovering close to his leather mask, and Sherlock got under the covers with him and untied the thin straps of his mask before setting it on the bedside table. Then, they naturally gravitated towards each other until they were entwined in a mess of limbs and warmth. Sherlock slid a hand under John's nightshirt while the other one lazily stroked his cheek, and when he leaned in for a quick goodnight kiss, John held him in place by a well placed hand on his neck.

Despite their exhaustion, neither seemed able to fall asleep. They remained entangled while they stared at each other. Sometimes, one of them would smile or laugh, and the other would mirror the gesture; soon, they had to admit that sleep wouldn't easily come for them that night. Sherlock found John's hand, and he brought it to his lips to lightly kiss his knuckles.

"We're engaged," Sherlock said.

"We are."

"Do you really want to marry me?"

"Haven't changed my mind. Yet," John answered with a smile.

Sherlock's smile was lost behind John's hand, the palm of which he was peppering with gentle kisses.

"I play the violin when I need to think, and sometimes I need to think in the middle of the night. I have black moods, and there may come a time when I won't talk for hours or days. I am rubbish at cleaning or cooking, and my idea of appropriate home decoration is a skull."

"And you tell me this now?" John asked, but it was obvious from his tone that he was amused.

"Future husbands should know the worst about each other."

"That's kind of you. I think. Although I must say I can't honestly object to the skull."

Sherlock chuckled, thinking about Aunt Martha's relief when the skull would finally leave her house; she had never gotten used to the gift, and her expression always turned sour when Sherlock mentioned it. For a long time, they continued to look at each other, Sherlock massaging John's hand while John stroked Sherlock's lower back.

"I never imagined being married until I met you," Sherlock said after a while.

"I thought about it often...before," John said, "it would have been a simple, pretty girl with a plain name and good manners. Now, when I think about it, I feel ill; imagine what I would have missed."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Instead, he pulled John closer, and he buried his face in his hair while trying not to think about his life without John. Had the bullet's trajectory been very slightly different, they never would have met. John could easily have died, and he could just as easily have lived unscathed, gone back to London, and married a Sarah, Anne, or a Mary. He wondered whether he would have eventually felt as though something was missing, or if he would have lived his life undisturbed.

John probably sensed his troubled thoughts, because he pulled away to hold Sherlock's face between his hands. He locked their eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was firm and earnest.

"I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, stop thinking about that."

"How did you know?"

"I was thinking the same thing, and it was scaring the hell out of me."

Sherlock smiled, and he carded his fingers through John's hair before leaning towards him to press their lips together.

"Never leave me," he murmured between kisses.

John grabbed Sherlock's hand, and he pressed their entwined fingers against his own heart so they could both feel the strong heartbeat there.

"Never. Not as long as this heart beats."

No other words were spoken that night, but John's promise echoed through the room, and they could both feel it through the beating of his heart. They both fell asleep eventually, lulled by the steady 'thump thump' of John's heart.


	24. Chapter 24

I am so, _so_ sorry you had to wait this long, especially for such a short episode. Life happened, the second series happened, and it was harder than I had anticipated to finish.

:::

Sherlock ran as fast as he could, the brown package clutched solidly in his hand. It was a beautiful day, and it seemed as though the whole village had decided to go out for a walk. As a result, Sherlock was slowed down by a lot of obstacles he had to avoid, and some he didn't bother avoiding. Several collisions later, he was finally out of the busy part of town and heading towards Sailboat Bay. Even though his lungs were burning, he didn't slow down; he continued to run as if his life depended on it, the accelerated rhythm of his heart guiding his steps.

He didn't bother stopping when Jim and Sebastian called him over, nor when he passed Aunt Martha's house; he had a goal, and he refused to get distracted. When he finally reached the path leading to his and John's house, he sped up, only slowing down when he caught a glimpse of his husband. Then, he stopped, leaned against a tree, and slowly caught his breath as he watched.

John was huddled up in his heavy black coat, his mask firmly in place and the rest of his face hidden by his beloved red scarf. He was sitting on the porch, so engrossed in his book that he didn't hear Sherlock's loud footsteps. Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed watching John when he was like that, absorbed in something he loved, something that fascinated him. He loved how his brow furrowed in concentration and how his tongue sometimes darted out to wet his lips. Even over a year after their wedding, he never tired of watching his husband.

They had gotten married in August of the previous year, as soon as their house had been finished. They both hadn't been keen on asking Sainte-Cécile's notary – Mr. Donovan – to marry them, so they had paid someone from Rimouski who had accepted to travel and marry them in their own clearing, close to their brand new house and surrounded by a small circle of friends and family. Mrs. Hudson had been there, unsurprisingly, as well as Jim and Sebastian, Gregory and Sarah, and Harry who had hung away from everyone else, but whose presence had pleased John.

Since then, they had barely left the other's side, and as long as they stayed in Sailboat Bay or around Harry's manor, they felt safe. At first, their wedding had been the only thing discussed around town, and for a while, neither Sherlock nor John was had been seen by anyone who wasn't part of their makeshift family. Eventually, a widow with bright red hair had moved into town, rumours of how she was a witch and had killed her three previous husbands had started circulating, and the interest in John and Sherlock had died down.

For Sherlock, the widow's innocence had been obvious, but he hadn't shared his knowledge with anyone, glad that his husband was now mostly unbothered. Since then, he sometimes went to the village, and he was left alone most of the time. However, he was always eager to return to his and John's secluded clearing, their own version of paradise.

At the center of their refuge stood their home. Jim and Sebastian truly had outdone themselves, and Sherlock and John loved their house almost as much as they loved each other, probably because it was so much _them. _Everything they had talked about while snuggling under John's heavy duvet, every wish they had had, Jim and Sebastian had managed to transform them into reality. Yet, despite the masterpiece that was their house, their favourite thing about it was the immense porch, which actually was a surprise gift from the married ones. When the weather was nice enough, they could spend long hours sitting on that porch reading to each other, sharing wine and fruits, watching the forest, or kissing.

Eventually, John had taken Sherlock's advice and had started writing his own stories. He had started with adventure tales involving dragons and knights, and Sherlock had enjoyed them so much he had insisted John shared them with Gregory, who was now reading them to his newborn son. Then, for Sherlock's birthday, John had written a murder mystery involving characters based on the two of them: Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, and his loyal assistant and friend, Doctor John Watson.

Sherlock had been incredibly pleased, although he hadn't been able to resist pointing out the flaws in John's plot. At first, John had been a little crossed, but he hadn't been able to deny that Sherlock's suggestions would have made his story better. One thing leading to another, they had formed a sort of writing partnership; John was in charge of the characters, dialogues, and general plot, and Sherlock helped him with the mysteries. There was something thrilling about reading his and John's made up adventures, and Sherlock found it easy to close his eyes and imagine that he and John were running across the streets of London, chasing criminals and solving mysteries.

Out of sentiment, they never changed the characters' names, but when Sherlock had suggested they tried to get their stories published, they had done so under a pseudonym made out of the names of John's father, Sherlock's father's, and Mrs. Hudson's late husband. A few months later, they had gotten a positive response from a small publishing company, and for a while, both Sherlock and John had been euphoric. Since then, they had written several other stories, all about the first consulting detective in the world and his best friend.

That day, Sherlock had gone to the store, just like he had done every day for several weeks. The publishing house was supposed to send a copy of the finished book, and Sherlock couldn't wait for it to finally arrive. When Mrs. Lestrade had handed him the heavy package, he had immediately known what it contained, and he had run home as quickly as possible. Now, leaning against a tree close to their house and looking at his husband, Sherlock couldn't wait to open the package. He ran to the porch, startling John in the process. John set his book aside and looked up at Sherlock's exuberant face.

"What's got you so excited?"

"It came!" Sherlock answered, dropping the package into John's lap and sitting close to him.

"Oh, wonderful," John said as he caressed the brown paper and the postage stamps, "it was exciting before, you know, but now that it's actually here, I'm not sure I believe it."

"Open it!"

"Give me a minute, I'm savouring the moment."

Sherlock wasn't the most patient of men, and he wished John could savour the moment faster. However, despite his impatience and excitement, he could understand John and his desire to go slowly. This was something that was entirely theirs, something born out of John's imagination and fuelled by his own passion for mysteries. Just thinking that perhaps people would read it felt strangely like bringing a child into the world. Not an entirely unpleasant thought.

When John finally started tearing the paper off, Sherlock was shaken out of his reverie, and he looked as the book was uncovered. Its cover was grey, with the title written in bold, black letters: The adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. John let out a shaky breath, and Sherlock grabbed his hand, bringing it up to his lips to gently kiss his knuckles.

After staring at the closed cover for several minutes, it was Sherlock who finally suggested they went inside to properly enjoy their book. While John made tea, Sherlock started a fire in their cozy library. They settled on the sofa closest to the fire, John with his back against the armrest, and Sherlock between his thighs, his head pillowed on John's shoulder. With one swift move, he took John's mask off and let it fall onto the floor. John brushed a gentle kiss against his temple, and he started reading.

They had read the words dozens of times before, but somehow, now that John was reading from a genuine bound book, it felt different. It felt real. Sherlock wouldn't give up their life for anything, but he liked thinking that in another world, they could still have found each other and fallen in love. In fact, he liked thinking that time and place didn't matter when they were concerned; Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would always find each other.

:::

Thanks for your patience, thanks for your support. I was so surprised and overwhelmed by the good response this story got, I never could have asked for better readers. Thank you for embarking on this adventure with me.


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